


This New World

by Alexander_Writes



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Big changes prior to canon taking place, Character Death(s), Corrival Deuce as Grand Mage, Erskine Ravel as Elder, Fix-It, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Possibly Unrequited Love, Set around time of Last Stand of Dead Men (give or take some years), Singular they/them pronouns, Swearing, The end goal of this fic is Erskine having a proper night's rest, The violence isn't as graphic as canon but tagging it just to be safe, Widespread Magic Reveal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: “We’re breaking down secrecy between mortals and mages. Non-violently.”Erskine nods slowly. “Why?”Across the world, mages are dispensing with secrecy and showing their magic to mortals. The Sanctuary is fighting to stop magic from being revealed in Ireland, while uncovering those behind this overnight movement.Or, the Alternate Universe where the plot is to reveal magic to mortals without spilling blood. All the Dead Men are alive.
Relationships: Hopeless & Erskine Ravel, Larrikin/Dexter Vex (background relationship), Valkyrie Cain & Skulduggery Pleasant
Comments: 46
Kudos: 47





	1. An Ordinary Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm just adding a note here to say that one of my main characters in this fic is nonbinary. And while their identity is touched on only a little within this work, if you are wary of potentially being triggered for whatever reason feel free to ask me about what topics are covered. This goes for all my other fics as well. Feel free to ask in comments/send me a message on tumblr. I am an enby, and nothing I have written feels particularly heavy to me, however I want to be safe rather than sorry. :)

Abigail is tapping her knee as she waits. Every time she catches herself, she flattens her palms. As soon as her gaze wanders her fingers return to that constant motion. The sky is darkening by the minute. Abigail hopes it doesn’t rain. She could do something with the water, she supposes, but it’s less impressive than fire. An elderly woman glances at her, walking a ghastly shaggy ball of a dog. 

They had said _do it somewhere public_ , and this is about as public as anywhere in Dublin. The river Liffey is behind her, the Smock Street Theatre in front. She’s sitting on one of the benches within the Viking Longboat statue; the seats bookended by a metal sculpture of a boat that curve up both sides. A yellow bus drives by. People are assembling at the bus station to her left.

Everyone Abigail looks at is dull-eyed, listening to music on their Walkman’s - or whatever mortals use now - or simply looking at the ground. She feels as out of place as always; she’s older than some of the buildings here, and all of the people, and her dress keeps attracting glances. It’s red velvet, long and fashionable – or it was when she had bought it, just after the Truce began.

Why is Abigail doing this? It’s a sure-fire way to get arrested. It has been over a century since she was in Serpine’s dungeon, but it’s not an experience one forgets easily, regardless of time or alcohol or beds slept in or countries travelled to. At least she won’t be being tortured, she reassures herself, and then snorts in grim amusement. But it’s true. She has seen the Irish Sanctuary’s holding cells, and they are adequate.

No, Abigail thinks, what happens to her after this doesn’t matter. Others will stand in her place. She has never been one to follow laws anyway, and this is the right thing to do. She thinks of her brother, killed by his mortal lover upon their discovery that he had magic. She thinks of lost families and lonely centuries. She thinks and thinks and almost misses the chiming of the church bell which she has chosen as her signal to start.

Abigail stands. People bustle past. She imagines what they would see when looking at her, would they notices her crow’s feet and messy hair, the anxious curve of her shoulders? She straightens her back, pats her dark hair down; if this is to be a show, she will do it well.

When Abigail had been approached by them, she had been surprised. She had stood in the doorway of her little cottage and looked at the two mages, absolutely silent. She never had visitors, and certainly none inviting her to join a worldwide conspiracy. They were high-ranking people too. Remembering her manners, she had invited them in. They had talked, and drunk tea, and their words made more sense than many things did now. Honesty had been layered into every one of their sentences. She had told them _I will do anything to help, anything you need_.

The memory of that promise wipes away any ideas of reneging on the plan. _Forgive me, Meritorious_ , she thinks, to a leader long dead, but that thought flits away as soon as it comes.

Abigail clicks her fingers on both hands, two sparks appear. She makes them grow as she steps onto the middle of the footpath. A businessman walks past then double-takes. She smiles as genuinely as she possibly can, letting those flames grow. A woman pushing a pram and holding the hand of a young child stops on the footpath. She leans down to her child.

“Look at this,” she tells the boy.

“Ma, is that magic?”

“Maybe,” she says, and smiles up at Abigail, as if they are both in on a joke.

The flames grow into pillars, slowly, slowly. Abigail holds them above her head and keeps smiling. The people watching think it’s some trick, some false magic. More people approach, and now there is a crowd around her. Some take out their phones to film her; _good_ , Abigail thinks. Many people leave the bus shelter in order to see what the fuss is about.

If an elemental focuses enough, they can turn flames blue or even white. Abigail does this, and the people around her gasp appreciatively. She looks at them all, at these oblivious mortals, and starts to dance. She guides the flame around her in arcs, until the world blurs. She feels the heat on her face. She dances the way her mother taught her centuries ago, and by the end she is sweating and grinning and the mortals are clapping. They ask her how she does it; it looks _so_ convincing, they say.

“It’s all magic,” she says, into a camera’s lens. “Just magic.”

Unbeknownst to Abigail’s audience, across the world, mages are doing the exact same thing. Women and men and people are turning invisible in plain view, changing their faces, teleporting and flying and throwing harmless balls of energy. People are coming out of hiding, and soon the magical governments will be in disarray, but right now, all that Abigail can do is smile.


	2. A Routine Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Irish Sanctuary gets wind of some unexpected, and potentially world-changing, developments.

Valkyrie is scowling at a pile of paperwork when Skulduggery Pleasant marches into her office. Erskine Ravel follows close behind and shuts the door. Both men have a terse, annoyed gait and posture, the irritation directed at each other. Valkyrie leans back with a grin and folds her arms. This should be entertaining.

“It’s a routine arrest, Skulduggery,” Ravel says, exasperated. "You do it all the time."

“Elder Ravel,” Valkyrie says, grinning wider when he winces at the title. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need you to help me convince your partner to do his job,” Ravel says. “There’s a mage you need to arrest, his name is Luscious or Meateater or something.”

“Lance Mildred,” Skulduggery corrects.

“See, I knew you were paying attention.”

Valkyrie has been sitting at her desk for hours. It’s at times like this when, bored out of her mind, Valkyrie wonders if she should instead be doing whatever ordinary nineteen-year old people did instead of working as a magical detective. Admittedly, she is a little hazy on what her peers do; study? Drink copious amounts of alcohol? Work at McDonalds? She winces at the thought, and looks at Skulduggery. He looks as disgruntled as his façade can. She feels herself perking up.

“We have a case? What are we arresting him for? Murder? Assault?”

“Tax evasion,” Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie deflates. “Oh.”

“Thirty-five years of it,” Erskine adds.

“Huh.” Valkyrie says. “But that’s barely anything in mage-years, is it?”

“Val, I know this is a difficult concept, but we are not dogs,” Erskine says. “We experience time in the same way that anything on this planet does; we just have more of it at our disposal.”

“Erskine, surely there are other people who can do this?” Skulduggery says.

“There are,” Erskine says, arms crossing. “But it’s _your_ job, and some people are muttering about favouritism. Which wouldn’t be an issue if it was just about Dexter and Val …”

“Hey,” Valkyrie says, on principle more than anything else.

“Sorry Val. Skulduggery, you know you can’t afford for suspicions to be raised about your capacity to do your work.”

“Surely this isn’t our top priority?” Valkyrie asks with a frown.

“It isn’t mine, certainly,” Ravel says with a wave of his hand. “That’s why I get you underlings to do it.”

“Thanks Erskine,” Valkyrie says.

“You’re welcome. Well, I expect Millicent to be brought in today. Don’t make me pull rank, Skulduggery, you know what that does to my complexion.”

“And we can’t have that,” Skulduggery agrees.

“Chop chop,” Erskine says. “Lovely to see you, Val.”

“Drop by anytime,” Valkyrie says. He flashes a brief smile, then leaves, muttering to himself about itchy robes. She watches him go, he walks quickly and deliberately, as if he has somewhere important to go.

"What's bothering you? Why don't you want to arrest him?" Valkyrie asks Skulduggery.

"Nothing's bothering me." He tilts his head. "I just think there are more important things for us to do."

Valkyrie snorts. "Like paperwork? Come on. Did he give you the address?” 

“He did.”

“All right,” she says, standing and grabbing her Bespoke tailored cloak from the hook on the wall.

“You’re in a rush.”

“If I have to sign another thing I shall very literally go insane.”

Skulduggery nods, then pauses. “As my partner, at least half of that work is your responsibility.”

“What about the other half then? I've been doing all of our work for this week. What about Dexter?”

“Dexter only agreed to work with me if no paperwork was involved.” Skulduggery says, opening the door for Valkyrie.

“That sounds somewhat unfair.”

“At the time, it felt like more than I deserved.”

Valkyrie opens her mouth but doesn’t know what to say, so they walk through the corridors of the Dublin Sanctuary in a sudden heavy silence, until Valkyrie discovers that Skulduggery brought a mauve car today, and complains loudly.

Lance Mildred lives in a squalid apartment amongst squalid apartments in a district of Dublin that Valkyrie has never been interested in visiting, and never intends to enter again. He’s on the second story of a rundown apartment block, and as they drive Valkyrie gets Skulduggery to give her the details. He’s an elemental, had fought in the war but was known for being utterly inept, and he has apparently refused to pay taxes for 35 years and gotten away with it until now. By the time they reach Lance’s door Valkyrie has an image in her mind of a dour faced man, someone small and possibly greasy. She knocks firmly, Skulduggery standing a little behind her.

“Who’s there?”

“Police,” Valkyrie calls. The door opens slowly.

The man in the entranceway is wearing a purple waistcoat with yellow jeans, his hair is frizzy. He looks younger than Valkyrie expected, with hard lines to his face, an inquisitive expression on his features. The inside of his apartment is well-lit.

“Hullo,” Valkyrie says, holding up her badge. “Are you Lance Mildred?”

“Yes?” He asks. “How may I help you?”

“I am Detective Cain and this is Detective Inspector Pleasant of the Irish Sanctuary, we’ve come to arrest you on the charge of tax evasion, you …”

Lance looks at Skulduggery’s calm façade, blanches, and bolts into his apartment. He bolts the door. They can hear as he trips over objects in an effort to get away.

Valkyrie huffs, and starts knocking on the door again. “You could have told me you two knew each other.”

“We don’t,” Skulduggery says. “Perhaps he dislikes my face.”

Valkyrie glances at Skulduggery's current face; it is pale, freckled, undeniably handsome and too young. Skulduggery should not look like a man in his late twenties. 

“It’s probably that,” she agrees. Skulduggery wilts a little as she turns back to the door. She knocks harshly. “Lance Mildred, we have a warrant for your arrest. If you refuse to come willingly, we will also charge you with resisting arrest.”

“Send someone else!” Lance calls through the door.

“What?” Valkyrie yells.

“Not him, anyone but him!”

“For God’s sake.” Valkyrie busts down the door with her shoulder. Lance, standing in the hallway, squeaks and runs.

“Be my guest,” Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie scowls and runs after Lance. Skulduggery follows at a more leisurely pace.

The apartment is cozier than it appears from the outside, but Mildred has been evading tax for thirty-five years. Valkyrie would have been disappointed if he _hadn’t_ put the money to good use. The walls are crimson and hung with gorgeous paintings. Valkyrie sees Lance turn the corner. The apartment has the disorientating feeling of being larger than should physically be possible.

Lance is fit, but so is Valkyrie. She catches up to him easily, but is caught by a brunt of wind to the gut. She folds, throwing wall of air instinctively. He drops and rolls, coming to his feet with ease. His eyes are narrowed when he glances around him. There’s a closed door to his left, the open entrance to a kitchen on his right.

Valkyrie launches herself at him, and he yelps as he comes crashing to the ground. Valkyrie pins his arms, sitting on his chest and fumbles with the cuffs on her belt.

“Do you know why you’re really arresting me?” He asks.

Valkyrie frowns. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve known what I was doing for three years, do you think it’s a coincidence that they arrest me _now_?”

Valkyrie shrugs, “honestly, I haven’t read your file.”

“Fair,” he says, then he headbutts her right in the forehead. A vase on a nearby table wobbles alarmingly, then smashes to the ground, shards flying everywhere. Valkyrie curses, loosening her grip.

“Sorry,” Lance says, and he pushes her flat to the ground with air. A shard of pottery digs into Valkyrie’s side. Lance gets to his feet, scans the corridor. “Where’s your partner?”

“I’m right here,” Skulduggery calls from another room.

Lance curses and runs in the opposite direction, into the kitchen. Valkyrie rolls to her feet, shakes out her arms, starts to grin. The kitchen is sleek, modern, very mortal in its design. Lance’s torso is out the window when she catches up to him, and she grimaces and drags him out. He kicks at her, and she dodges the first, catching the second to her chin before she gets a hold of his ankles. She tastes blood, but doesn’t let go.

“Help me! Sorcerers are trying to kill me!” He screams.

“Shut up. There are mortals out there. It’s literally _just a fine_.” Valkyrie says, and pulls him to the ground. He looks up at her dolefully as she handcuffs him.

“I thought you lot were with us, anyway,” he says.

Valkyrie frowns, standing above him and rubbing her jaw. “What? With who?”

“… What?”

Valkyrie shakes her head. “Lance Mildred, I am arresting you under the charge of tax evasion and resisting arrest.”

“I know,” he says, head lolling back.

Valkyrie rolls her eyes and hauls him to his feet. He seems to have deflated now that the cuffs are on him. She directs him back up the hallway and looks into the room Skulduggery’s voice came from. He’s standing in front of a computer, the blue light of the screen makes his face look waxier than normal. Valkyrie huffs and escorts Lance out of the apartment, and down to their parked car. She directs him in the car, and shuts the door, crossing her arms as Skulduggery approaches.

“Did you have fun?" 

“Shut up,” Valkyrie says, rubbing her chin. “You could have helped.”

“If I had tried to touch him, he would have had a heart attack. You had it all under control.”

“Possibly,” Valkyrie concedes. She looks into the car, at the man's bowed head. “Why was he so scared of you, anyway? It looked like you’d murdered his family or something.”

“That’s always a possibility,” Skulduggery says, and Valkyrie stares.

“I cannot tell if you’re joking or not,” she says.

“Good,” Skulduggery says. “Now, stop talking before your teeth fall out.”

"He didn't kick me that hard," Valkyrie grumbles.

Skulduggery smiles beatifically, and gets in the car. Valkyrie hops in, and Skulduggery pulls off the curb before she buckles in. 

The Sanctuary is busier than usual. Valkyrie walks with her hand on Lance Mildred's shoulder. Ahead of them, Skulduggery almost collides with a flustered person carrying a pile of papers and talking on the phone. Their voice is tight.

“Sorry,” they say, then continue their rushed conversation in French.

Skulduggery brushes his shirt down, disgruntled. Valkyrie grins, until she looks down.

“Bugger.”

“Your shirt’s ripped,” Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie glares at him, then returns her gaze to the offending fabric. It’s a Bespoke shirt, it shouldn’t have been torn at all. She thinks back to how it could have happened, and comes back blank. Surely possibly-ancient pottery wouldn’t defeat Ghastly’s armoured clothing?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it would be rude to comment on a lady’s attire.”

Valkyrie buttons up her jacket to hide the jagged, very noticeable hole. “Next time, tell me _before_ I go out in public.”

“As you wish,” Skulduggery says.

Lance says nothing, even as they take him to the holding cells and lock him away. Skulduggery looks at his phone, before marching back down the corridor. Valkyrie scowls and jogs to catch up.

“What’s happening?” Valkyrie asks Skulduggery. “And if you deflect one more time, I _will_ burn all of your hats.”

Skulduggery hums, and walks a little ahead, through the whitened corridors, past Cleavers and staff and people Valkyrie has never spoken to before.

“Mildred had a video on his computer,” Skulduggery says.

“And?”

“It was a trending YouTube video. Published two hours ago. Three million views.”

Valkyrie frowns. “Is there a point to this, at all?”

“It was film of an elemental. He was in Prague, using magic in front of mortals.”

“Ah.” Valkyrie says. “That’ll be taken down soon though, won’t it? We have people who deal with those sorts of things.”

“Usually, yes,” Skulduggery says. “But usually our people don’t let that sort of evidence go public at all. I looked on the trending page and there were at least twenty other similar clips. All taken by mortals.”

“Someone’s trying to expose us?” Valkyrie asks.

“Possibly. And Erskine just texted, he wants us to come to a meeting."

The door to the meeting room is open; they are the last to enter. It’s a room with curved walls, centred around a circular table. There’s a screen to their right. Elder Mist sits beside Grand Mage Deuce. Hopeless and Erskine sit together. Dexter is leaning against the far wall, he waves to them as they enter.

“Hullo Skulduggery, Valkyrie,” Corrival says. He’s refusing to wear his formal Grand Mage robes again, though he had insisted with some glee that Ravel wear them.

“Grand Mage,” Skulduggery says, inclines his head. “What appears to be the issue?”

“I’m assuming you’re aware of the leaked videos?” Deuce says.

“Yes.” Skulduggery says.

“There are at least thirty such videos trending online,” Ravel says. “We can expect more to be uploaded in the next hours and days. The people behind these videos appear to be worryingly well coordinated – they are from across the world, and revealing their powers in full view of the public.”

“Has anyone made any statements? Do we know who’s behind this?” Valkyrie asks.

“No group has claimed responsibility.” Mist says.

“We are working to identify Irish mages who were featured in the videos. As well as uncover why our sensitives didn’t stop this going online. We have safeguards in place.” Erskine says, annoyed. “I set them up.”

“You need to be better at your job, then,” Dexter says, with a tired shrug.

“We don’t need to panic yet,” Hopeless says quietly. “Mortals have high quality special effects now. These videos will be interpreted as hoaxes or pranks, however real they appear. The question is what to do if more videos come up, and more people witness these sorcerers in person. It’s less easy to dismiss what you see with your own eyes.”

“Why are we here?” Skulduggery asks. “What do you want us to do?”

“If we’re to cover this up, we need to act swiftly. We need our best detectives discovering who is orchestrating this and why, and arrest those in charge. While you’re doing that, we’re going to communicate with as many Sanctuaries as possible. If we’re going to maintain our secrecy, we need to cooperate,” Mist says calmly.

“We can assume that this is a distraction.” Deuce says grimly. “Our communities have relied on secrecy for so long, if that becomes threatened there could be mass panic. We need to be extra-vigilant, in covering this up as much as feasible, but we must not let our guard down in other areas. The people behind this may have more nefarious motives than we expect.”

“And we have no leads at all?” Dexter asks. His voice is rough. Valkyrie glances at him; he’s the third partner to all their cases, one of the highest ranked Detectives in the Irish Sanctuary.

“We have a couple,” Erskine says. “Lance Mildred, the man you just arrested? He was caught on camera in one of the videos. Not doing anything suspicious, mind you, but he may be involved. I want you to question him, with Hopeless’ help.”

Hopeless’ jaw jumps, but they don’t say anything. Perhaps the anxiety provoked by these videos is affecting Hopeless strongly, Valkyrie thinks. They usually aren’t so quiet.

“All right,” Valkyrie says. “Is that all?”

“It is,” Corrival says. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to call the British Grand Mage.”

Deuce leaves, as does Mist and the others, but the Dead Men and Valkyrie remain in the room. They wait until the door is closed to start speaking.

“Erskine, you didn’t say you wanted me to _interrogate_ someone,” Hopeless bites out. “This isn’t the war anymore.”

“You’re not being asked to torture him,” Erskine says. “I just thought you could help. You’re good at interviewing suspects.”

Hopeless puts a hand on their face with a strangled sound. “There’s a reason I didn’t become a Detective, Erskine. I don’t want to do that sort of thing anymore.”

“So you’re not going to help?” Erskine asks placidly, and receives a glare in response.

“I’ll help.”

“Why did you tell us that we were arresting him for tax evasion?” Skulduggery asks.

“Deuce wants this kept as secret as possible; it’s more convenient to charge him under his known criminal activities than for being in a video clip. Does it matter?” Erskine says.

“Yes, it does. You can’t send us into situations without all the information, that’s how people get killed. Or, well, how Valkyrie gets herself killed.”

“I’ll kill you if you keep up with that talk,” Valkyrie says.

“We’re getting off track,” Hopeless interjects. “Is there anything else to discuss, Erskine?”

Ravel nods, then shakes his head. “Nothing I can think of.”

“Okay,” Hopeless says. “Where’s the man you want us to question?”

"You seem suddenly rather enthusiastic," Dexter says.

"I want this over with," Hopeless says.

“They're processing his arrest, it'll be a quarter of an hour before they'll let us question him,” Skulduggery says. “I’m going to look at the other videos, see if anyone is identifiable.”

“Tipstaff already did that,” Erskine says.

Valkyrie blinks, “Tipstaff knows how to use YouTube?”

“Valkyrie, he was one of people who made YouTube,” Erskine says.

“Really?”

“Of course not.”

“I hate you.”

“Can we focus?” Dexter says with a yawn. “Does Tipstaff have a list of the names of people involved?”

“Only two mages were identifiable under our records. A woman by the name of Abigail Heath and a person called Hamish Leister.” Erskine hands Dexter a piece of paper. “Here are their addresses and information.”

Dexter scans the page with raised eyebrows. “We should go.”

“Keep us updated,” Erskine says.

“Will do,” Dexter says, distractedly, and the three of them leave. It feels, Valkyrie thinks, like a huge waste of time, arriving at the Sanctuary only to leave it, but they needed to meet Dexter anyway.

At least, she thinks as they round a corner, it is unlikely that she will be required to do paperwork in the near future, until this situation is resolved. The day is looking up. She starts whistling, and doesn’t stop even when Dexter glances at her with a frown. Things are getting interesting at last.


	3. Little Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erskine and Mist have a conversation. Valkyrie and the others interview the suspects.

Hopeless receives a call almost as soon as Skulduggery and everyone depart, so Erskine leaves them to it. He has calls of his own to make, videos to scrutinise, orders to give. He’s half-way to his office when he realises that he’s being followed. He slows his pace.

“Elder Mist,” Ravel says. “May I help you?”

“Elder Ravel,” she says. Her veil hides all expression but Erskine had spent six months in her company recovering from torture at Serpine’s hands. He knows when she’s on edge. “We need to talk.”

Erskine has a long day ahead of him. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have to avoid treading on people’s toes. In the war days it had been easier; you were told what to do, you did it, hoped you didn’t die, and that your friends didn’t destroy anything important. Now, Erskine is partially responsible for an entire country, the people within that country and their happiness. He doesn’t like the way it feels.

“Come to my office, then,” he says.

Erskine’s office has no character, mainly because he is still banking on being voted out in the near future so he can retire and start knitting, or something else adequately mundane. He doesn’t want to invest time in picking out books to display. Hopeless sometimes sneaks pictures or knickknacks into the room, in an attempt to make the place less bleak, and Larrikin put a violin in the corner, but they aren’t in here often enough to be able to change the feel of the place. The only thing Erskine has done of note is change the chair to something significantly more comfortable. He sits in it, and starts sorting through the paper on his desk.

“What do you need?”

Mist closes the door, and approaches him, but doesn’t sit. Erskine starts to fill out forms. He has half a mind to ask her to leave when the silence stretches out to uncomfortable levels.

“I want to ask for your help.”

“What with?” Erskine asks.

“I know you are not at ease with the current status quo,” she says.

Erskine doesn’t respond.

“Why would you be? Mortals are destroying the world while people like us hide in the dirt.” Mist draws in a breath. “Now is the perfect opportunity to change all that.”

Now, Erskine does look up. “What do you suggest?”

Mist’s hands are folded together, sedately. Her head tilts, and the cloth of her veil falls against the curve of her jaw.

“That we ensure our people aren’t crushed by the mortals when they discover we exist. That we do what is right, and strike first.”

"And what about Corrival?"

"He doesn't need to know." Mist says, after a pause.

Erskine’s on his feet before he realises it. “Are you behind these videos?”

“Of course not,” Mist says, with a scoffing tone.

“So, what, you’ve decided to take advantage of the situation and convince me to _commit treason_?” Erskine asks, palms flat on his desk. “I helped Deuce create this peace, if you remember. I worked with him to hide magic from the mortals.”

“We both know your loyalties aren’t tied to him and the Dead Men,” Mist says calmly. “You were with us long before Deuce asked for your aid.”

“Well I’m not anymore.” Erskine says. “I told you my answer long ago.”

“I see."

Ravel feels the weight of her gaze though he cannot see her eyes.

“Get out,” he says, voice clipped.

Elder Mist sways out of his office, and closes the door. Erskine curses, loudly and angrily. His hands are shaking. He thinks of those six months, and is carried into a past he has long left behind him. He remembers a flash of green eyes. Agony. The realisation that the people he loved were not coming for him.

 _No_. Erskine bunches his fists on the table. He’s here, now. He has a job to do. There are more important things to think about. Damn Mist, and her insidious, familiar voice.

Erskine considers seeing if Hopeless has finished their call for a moment. Then the idea of subjecting them to the remnants of his panic and fear makes him see reason, and he sits back down. For want of something to do, he picks up the telephone, and asks the boy on the register if there are any missed calls for him. There are, because of course there are, and he puts a smile in his voice as he’s put through to the Grand Mage of Poland.

After this situation is resolved, preferably without exposing their world to the mortals, Erskine is going to take a holiday. He doesn’t know where, but sea and sun sound good. Maybe Anton will drop him off with the hotel. He will wear collared shirts with the top button undone, and smile at people who have no idea who he is, and he will not think about Ireland at all.

“Hello Maria,” he says with a smile. “I’m so sorry I missed your call …”

Neither Abigail nor Hamish put up any resistance when they are arrested, they come along easily and without any yelling. They do, however, refuse to speak, and when one of the Sanctuary Sensitives looks at them it’s discovered that both have incredibly strong mental shields.

Valkyrie is sitting on the floor in the corridor outside the interview room when Hopeless arrives. Dexter and Skulduggery are inside with one of the suspects but Valkyrie had wanted space to think. Hopeless waves, pocketing their phone. They are wearing a navy collared shirt, and black trousers.

“Hello Val,” Hopeless says. “I got Dexter’s text. What’s wrong?”

“We’ve arrested them but the Sensitives can’t get anything from them yet.” Valkyrie says, standing. “Can you help?”

Hopeless’ magic works in a different way to Sensitives, but it can still get information. They grimace at the closed door, then nod.

“Mildred is awake and well,” they tell Valkyrie before they enter. “I dropped by him on the way. He doesn’t have much useful information about _who’s_ organising all this. But he had a lot to say about their aims.”

“Oh?”

“According to him, they want to reveal magic to the mortals. They’re not a distraction, and they aren’t violent – apparently. Of course, whether this translates to reality is another matter.” Hopeless shrugs. “But I think he was telling the truth.”

“You don’t know?”

Hopeless frowns. “I’m not omniscient, Val. He wasn’t showing any signs of lying, though.”

“All right,” Valkyrie nods. “Did he say anything about their further plans?”

“Nothing that we haven’t already guessed at,” Hopeless says. 

The door opens and Dexter leans out.

“Are you going to stand out there chinwagging all day?” He asks.

“Chinwagging?” Valkyrie asks.

“Larrikin’s being a bad influence again,” Hopeless says, and walks into the interview room. Valkyrie follows.

The room’s walls are grey. It’s brightly lit. There's a table with four chairs. Abigail Heath is across from Skulduggery, and Dexter sits back down beside him. Hopeless takes the seat across from Dexter and drags it away, nearer to the wall, and Valkyrie leans against the door. Abigail looks at Valkyrie, Dexter and Skulduggery, and breaks her silence.

“This is a bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t anything better to do.” Valkyrie shrugs, then glances at her watch. It’s 5:00PM.

Skulduggery and Dexter resume their questions. Abigail responds to none of them. Valkyrie examines the woman. Her hands are bunched in the fabric of her skirt, but she is obviously confident in her mental wards. She doesn’t look away from Dexter and Skulduggery once.

“I remember you,” Hopeless interjects. “You were involved in the evacuation of Cork.”

Abigail’s jaw jumps, her eyes remain fixed on Dexter. “I know what you are. You’re not going to get anything out of me.”

Hopeless smiles wryly. “I’m not going to hurt you. We fought together, remember?”

“I fought with many people,” Abigail says. “I don’t remember you.”

“That’s understandable. I was wearing a different face at the time,” Hopeless says. “Why were you dancing in the street in that video?”

“I’m not saying anything until my lawyer arrives,” Abigail says.

Hopeless stands up suddenly. Abigail flinches. But they just put the chair back under the table and head toward the door. Valkyrie moves aside.

“I got what you needed,” Hopeless says to Dexter.

Abigail looks at them. “You can’t have, I didn’t …”

“Are you coming?” Hopeless asks the others.

“All right,” Skulduggery says. “Thanks for the chat, Ms Heath.”

“I didn’t tell you anything,” Abigail blurts.

“You didn’t need to, I’m afraid,” Dexter says. “Your lawyer will be here soon.”

Valkyrie shuts the door, and they all look at Hopeless. They have their arms crossed, and are tapping their foot.

“Well?” Dexter says.

“She was so afraid of letting anything slip in front of me that she let some of it slip,” Hopeless says. “She was approached last year by two men – the image of them that came across was hazy, but they’re well-known Irish mages. They invited her to join their movement, she accepted.”

“That doesn’t give us much,” Skulduggery says.

“That was all I was going to get from her,” Hopeless says sharply. “I thought that if I rattled her she’d let slip something else, but her mental protection must extend to emotions, too.”

“Do you know what they were well-known for, these mages?” Dexter says.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you specifics.” Hopeless says. “So, what are you all doing now?”

Valkyrie jams her hands in her pockets. “I’m dropping by Ghastly’s after this. I need to be home by 6.”

“You’re a bit old for a curfew.” Dexter says.

Valkyrie sticks her tongue out at him. “Mum’s having a celebratory dinner, and Dad’s cooking. I need to be there for moral support as we eat his food.”

“All right,” Dexter says. “I don’t think we’ll get much more done this afternoon, anyway. Hopeless, will you come with me to see if Leister has any more information?”

“Sure.” Hopeless says, checking their phone.

“I’ll drop Valkyrie back then,” Skulduggery says after a pause.

“I can do that, if you want.” Dexter says quietly.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“See you tomorrow,” Valkyrie says.

“Ciao,” Dexter says.

Hopeless and Dexter head off towards the other holding cell, stopping to talk to the nearest cleaver. Skulduggery marches off in the opposite direction, Valkyrie blinks and catches up.

“So, any theories?” Valkyrie asks.

Skulduggery tilts his head. “Theories?”

“On what’s happening?”

“It’s hard to have theories with so little information.”

“Guesses, then?”

They turn a corner, heading towards the foyer.

“The Irish people involved all fought on our side during the war.” Skulduggery says. “Abigail’s brother was murdered by his mortal lover. Hamish is an anti-nuclear activist. They both have reason to dislike mortal society. The three of them – including Lance – do not know each other, and their politics are all left-leaning but not necessarily aligned. They don’t seem like people the Diablerie or the followers of the Faceless Ones would recruit. This is probably a group we haven’t seen before.”

“Are there any magical groups wanting to bring mortals and mages together?” Valkyrie asks.

“Of course, but there aren’t any prominent ones, and certainly none with this much influence. Since we talked with Erskine there have apparently been thirty-five more instances – not all of them on film – across Europe. They are gaining media attention already.”

“Wow,” Valkyrie says. 

“Indeed,” Skulduggery says. He opens the exit door. “After you.”

The rain is heavier than it was earlier in the day. It’s beating down on the pavement, and the water catches the light and blurs the street. Valkyrie yelps as it starts bucketing down, and races to the car. Skulduggery follows easily behind. Once inside, Skulduggery looks at Valkyrie. There’s disappointment in the angle of his skull, though his false face is placid.

“Valkyrie,” he says. “You’re an elemental.”

Valkyrie opens her mouth, then closes it.

“Oh.”

“You can control water,” Skulduggery says, and she glares. He waves a hand and the water in her hair and face drifts away. She is suddenly considerably warmer.

“Just drive,” she grumbles, and he laughs.

Though it is still afternoon the rain makes the day much darker than it should be. The street lights are already on. The pedestrians are only smudges through the car window. Black umbrellas stand out against the grey, and the buildings they pass are old. The scene before Valkyrie could be from a hundred years ago, she thinks, and she wonders what it’s like to live that long. Would the weight of centuries hang off everything you see? Would you be flooded with memories every time you walked down a main street?

“Valkyrie,” Skulduggery starts, then stops.

“What?”

“Have you thought about what you’ll do if we can't suppress these films?”

Valkyrie turns. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a possibility we won’t be able to stop magic being revealed,” Skulduggery says. “A small one, mark you, I have faith in our – but mostly my – abilities. Will you tell your parents?”

Valkyrie feels suddenly winded. “Do you think I should?”

“I think,” Skulduggery says, and he takes a right turn sharper than is necessary. “That this is a decision you have to make on your own. But this might be an easier way to tell them, if magic becomes common knowledge. And it can’t hurt to start thinking about it now.”

“What would you do, in my situation?”

“I’ve never been in your situation, fortunately.” Skulduggery says. “My family was magical, my friends were predominantly elementals when I was your age. My wife was a famous mage long before she met me. Revealing my powers was never really a concern of mine.”

“Well, that's not much help, is it?”

“Valkyrie …”

“Just drive, will you?”

Skulduggery sighs. “As you wish.”

They remain silent until they arrive at Bespoke Tailors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was unbetaed. If you have any feedback it's more than welcome. I'm in the process of writing this fic, so if there are any inaccuracies or plot holes I'd appreciate them being pointed out, if you feel like doing so!
> 
> Please note that aspects of this text were inspired by the amazing works of purplejabberwock.


	4. Conversations and a Concerning Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day ends, for everyone except Ravel.

Skulduggery remains in the car. Valkyrie grabs a T-Shirt from the boot, walks down the alley to Bespoke Tailors. This time she uses her powers, and a sphere of air surrounds her, keeping the water off. The bucketing has lessened more to a sprinkling, and the water rolls off the air. It's like she's in a bubble outside the ordinary process of life. 

Bespoke Tailors is non-descript as ever, closed for the day. It's late. But the windows are lit from within by soft yellow light, and when Valkyrie raps on the door Ghastly opens it quickly. He's smiling faintly, wearing a shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow and holding scissors in his left hand.

"Hello Val," Ghastly says. "I didn't expect you. Do you want some tea?"

"I'm in a bit of a rush, sorry." She says. "My parents are having a 'special family dinner' and if I miss another one I won't hear the end of it."

"I understand," Ghastly says. "Come in?"

They enter the shop. Ghastly is in the middle of a project. There are sheets of fabric strewn across the workbench. Measuring tools and scissors are scattered on the space. The project looks expensive, from the rolls of velvet and silks. It must be a special commission. 

"How are you?" Valkyrie asks.

"I'm well," Ghastly says. "How about you?"

"I'm good." Valkyrie sighs. "I've ripped my shirt. Would I be able to get a new one?"

"Of course. What did you do to it?"

"I got into a fight and it, uh, tore on some broken pottery."

Ghastly frowns. "Disregarding the fact that you were throwing around ceramics, that really shouldn't have damaged the material. I'm assuming you're still wearing it?"

"Yeah, I didn't get a chance to change." Valkyrie says.

"Well, you can swap shirts in the changing room if you want. If it's alright, I'd like to see what happened to it. It could be a serious flaw with my materials."

"Alright," Valkyrie says.

Ghastly goes back to his work as she heads to the changing room. When she leaves, wearing a plain black T-shirt, Ghastly takes the ruined shirt without looking and places it on the table.

"Have you seen the videos?" Valkyries asks at the door.

"The ones of the mages in Prague?" Ghastly asks. "Yeah, Dexter sent me the links to some of them."

"Yeah," Valkyrie bites her lip. "What will you do, if magic is revealed to the mortals?"

"It shouldn't come to that," Ghastly says, cutting a strip of fabric. "But I don't see why that'd change my life much, unless there's a war."

"Yeah," Valkyrie says. "I suppose not."

"How about yourself? What will you do?"

"I don't know." Valkyrie says quietly. "I think I would have to tell my parents about my work, but ..."

"But that means admitting you lied to them," Ghastly says.

"Exactly." Valkyrie looks down.

"Don't worry. You'll figure it out."

"When do you think you can get me the new shirt?" Valkyrie asks.

"Oh, it'll be done in a couple of days," Ghastly says with a shrug. He gestures to the bundles of cloth. "This is my last order for the week. I'll have finished it tonight."

"Thanks Ghastly, you're the best."

"I am, aren't I?"

Valkyrie laughs and goes over to hug him.

"Have a good evening with the family," Ghastly says.

"Thanks, have a good evening too."

Valkyrie shuts the door gently. Skulduggery is still in the driver's seat, Valkyrie sits beside him. Skulduggery pulls off the curb. He doesn't speak until they're almost at Valkyrie's parents' house.

"How's Ghastly doing?" 

"He's well."

"Good," Skulduggery says, almost to himself. 

Valkyrie frowns. "Why do you always ask that? You could just ask him yourself."

Now that Valkyrie is thinking about it, she has never seen the two have a proper conversation. It's been a subtle constant in all Dead Men interactions since she met them. If they are in the same place, more often than not, Ghastly and Skulduggery will be on the opposite ends of the room.

"I could, but I don't want to," Skulduggery says.

"Do you hate him?" Valkyrie says, frowning. The idea of someone hating Ghastly is alien, like someone saying that Serpine had a flower garden. It just isn't worth genuine consideration. But for all Valkyrie knows, Serpine could secretly be an avid botanist, and Skulduggery could hate Ghastly for something that happened long ago.

"No," Skulduggery says, with surprising vehemence. "He's the best man I have ever known."

Valkyrie frowns further, and then her jaw drops. She swivels.

"Do you have a _crush_ on him? Oh my god, is that why you're so awkward around him?"

It makes a lot of sense, but the idea of Skulduggery having feelings for someone is weird. He's a skeleton. Ghastly is a shy mage with a crush on Tanith Low. The two do not seem compatible.

Skulduggery sighs. "No, I don't. You aren't going to be able to guess this."

"Well just tell me, then."

"I'll get you an ice cream if you drop this topic."

Valkyrie frowns. "I'm nineteen, Skulduggery. I'm not a kid. You can't bribe me with sweets."

"I can with Larrikin, and he's an adult."

 _"I'm_ an adult. And as if sweets would stop Larrikin nagging you about something. So, spit it out."

"Oh, here's your parents' house. What a pity." Skulduggery says, pulling up to the driveway. Valkyrie scowls, and gets out of the car.

Dexter gets home just after sunset. Usually he drives home after work, but his sight is blurring a little, so he takes a taxi. He enters his house to find the lights on and the smell of warmed bread in the air. He drops his satchel under the coat rack, removes his jacket. 

Theirs is a small apartment, with wooden floorboards and blue walls. The paintings were all chosen by his partner, but Dexter chose much of the furniture. It fits, mismatched and clashing as it is. They haven't lived here long, but Dexter feels more at home here than any of the places he's lived in in the last four centuries.

"Larrikin," he calls. "I'm home!"

"I'm in the kitchen!" 

Dexter smiles and walks in to find Larrikin over the stove. He's stirring something in a pot; it smells like stew. Larrikin had a shift at the hospital, which always exhausts him. Dexter wraps his arms around him, and Larrikin leans into his embrace with a sigh. Dexter feels the weight of a day's fatigue fall onto him, he lets it. 

"I saw the videos, thought you might be having a tough day sorting this all out," Larrikin says.

"So you made me dinner," Dexter says. "I think I might love you."

"Fancy that," Larrikin says, laughing, and they kiss. "Sit down, you look like you're about to collapse."

"How was your day?" Dexter asks, sitting on the closest chair.

"Horrible," Larrikin says cheerfully. "I was healing this big American chunk of a man and half-way through the treatment he realised who I was. It went from him complaining about the medicine to saying how he expected a Dead Man to be taller."

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd killed Mevolent and I'll kill him if he didn't shut up. It was surprisingly successful."

Dexter snorts. "Do you often threaten your patients with death? You're a menace."

"I'm a menace to society." Larrikin hums, getting bowls from the kitchen cupboard. "It's ready."

"Thank you," Dexter says, and helps to serve the food out. There's a fresh loaf of bread on the table, he cuts them each a slice and butters. "It wasn't you that killed Mevolent, though. It was Skulduggery."

"It was very much Skulduggery. I just ... sort of watched and yelled encouragement."

Dexter grins. Skulduggery has told him the story, he knows Larrikin's downplaying it all. For all of his loud humor and personality, Larrikin gets uncomfortable when people applaud his actions in the war. Larrikin gives him his bowl and another swift hug. Dexter leans into him.

"Does Skulduggery know you're leaching off his good deeds?"

Larrikin shrugs. "He'll find out sooner or later."

Dexter smiles. Larrikin sits beside him. Dexter covers a yawn, and they eat.

"So, what was your day like?"

"Exhausting," Dexter says. "Erskine and everyone are frantic because of these films, and we're supposed to find all the people breaking the Secrecy Laws and arrest them."

Larrikin sucks in a quick breath. "That's going to be a lot of people. Is that their plan, just use enough force and suppress it?"

"Yeah," Dexter says quietly. "We've been caught by surprise. At least we're not doing what America's doing - sentencing people for life if they're involved in this movement, and arresting anyone with any possible connection to the suspects."

Larrikin puts his spoon down. "What?"

"Yeah," Dexter says. "I've got a couple of friends in America, they're getting worried. It seems like the Sanctuary clamped down immediately. I helped negotiate some flights for people who want to get out this morning, threw my weight around a bit to get them safely to Ireland."

"Was that why you left early?" Larrikin asks.

"Yeah," Dexter says. "Sorry about that."

"No," Larrikin says. "Meant I had the whole bed, no complaints here. Do you think Ireland's going down the same track as America?"

"No," Dexter shakes his head. "The only justification the US has was that this will stop the movement from spreading. It might even be true - we'll have to see. But we aren't going to do anything that draconian. By the time that even occurs to anyone in Ireland it'll be too late for that to be effective."

"Good," Larrikin says. 

"Yeah," Dexter says. 

Dexter really hopes his judgement is correct, because he doesn't know what he'll do if the Irish Sanctuary's response goes too far. Well, he knows what he'll do, but he doesn't want to have to do it. Going against Erskine and Corrival is something he has never considered before, and he doesn't like the idea at all. Something sinks in his stomach, over all the fatigue, but he focuses on the moment, on Larrikin's eyes and smile and the food in front of him. God, he needs to sleep.

After Valkyrie's family has dinner, baby Alice is put to bed, and her mother toasted for her promotion several times, Valkyrie finds her parents in the living room. Her mother is playing a video, and her father looking over her shoulder. The sound from the laptop is tinny.

"Come look at this, Stephanie," her mother says.

Valkyrie walks over to peer over their shoulders. "What are you looking at?"

"It was on Facebook." 

It's a film shot from an iPhone in portrait mode. The scene is of a dusty street, with tall white houses on each side. The video shakes as the man behind it talks, but he's speaking Polish or Hungarian or something and Valkyrie has no idea what he's saying. Even so, she knows where this is going.

A figure in black strides towards the camera, shadows dancing around them like vicious living things. A necromancer, then. The figure's head turns toward the camera. The man yelps and then the film ends.

"Okay," Valkyries says. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Haven't you see the news?" Her mother says. "These clips are going viral. People are swearing it's real."

"Shows how many conspiracy theorists there are," her father says.

"Yes," Valkyrie says. She pauses for a moment. "It looks pretty fake."

"It's weird, though, that this is cropping up everywhere at the same time." Her mother says.

Valkyrie's dad gets up abruptly. "I'm going to make tea, do you want some?"

The two women watch him leave.

"Poor love," Valkyrie's mum says. "These videos remind him of his grandfather, and Gordon."

Valkyrie frowns. "Why, what did his grandfather have to do with magic?"

"He told them fairytales every night," her mum says with a soft smile. "Stories about Gods and monsters and people with powers. Fergus hated it."

"I bet he did," Valkyrie says, and hugs her mother tight. "Goodnight mum."

"Goodnight love," her mum says. "Don't work too hard tomorrow, yeah?"

"I'll try," Valkyrie says, and grimaces to herself as she leaves.

Erskine doesn't get to sleep. He lies in still wakefulness, gazing at the shadowed walls and the curve of his wardrobe. His thoughts are moving constantly, like water in a mill or the tread of horses' hooves. Regular and impossible to ignore. He knows Hopeless will be awake too, in the bedroom beside his, but he doesn't go to them to pass the night away in talk or shared silence. He thinks about Mist, and what she might be planning. He thinks about what will happen if the mortals find out about magic. He thinks about the people that he had met and talked to with Corrival, so long ago. There's a weight in his stomach that won't disappear, regardless of how he turns in bed. 

Hopeless had been the one to convince him to go home for dinner. They had been distant the whole day, perhaps annoyed at being asked to interview suspects, perhaps because of something else. The only time they had met his eyes was to convince him to leave his desk. There had been something so tired behind their grey eyes, so Erskine hadn't protested.

Now Erskine rubs his eyes and yawns. He really should stop thinking. He won't be of much use if he's sleep-deprived. He's just drifting off when his mobile rings, the sound coarse against the softness of the morning. Erskine blinks and almost falls out of bed, then he scrambles to sit up. He switches the light on, and answers his phone. It's Deuce.

"Erskine, what the hell are you playing at?"

Erskine frowns. "What?"

"I saw the interview, what in God's name are you and the boys doing?"

"It's three in the morning, Deuce. I have no idea what you're talking about." Erskine says. "Explain or I'm hanging up."

"I'm talking about Saracen being interviewed on television."

"Good for him," Erskine says. "I'm going to sleep unless you get to the point."

"Erskine, stop being deliberately obtuse," Corrival growls.

"When have I ever played dumb?" Erskine asks in a matching tone. He softens his tone. "Corrival, what happened?"

"Saracen Rue just went on television and exposed us all. He talked about the war, and magic, and _everything_ we have been fighting to hide for centuries. It was aired internationally. Are you going to continue to pretend you had nothing to do with it?"

Erskine puts his head in his free hand. The last he heard, Saracen is in Russia with a girl he met. He hadn't thought ...

"Erskine?"

"I had no idea he was going to do this," Erskine says frankly. "You need to believe me. I haven't seen this interview. This isn't a Dead Men conspiracy."

Corrival exhales, and Erskine hears all his anger fade away. Erskine waits for him to say something, to apologise for his lack of faith, or for him to express his anxiety at what is happening. The two of them have worked so long to keep mortals and mages apart, to avoid conflict or oppression or violence. It was Deuce's life's work. Suddenly Erskine isn't angry, or indignant. He just feels deeply, coldly, sad.

"Can we talk about this tomorrow morning?" Erskine asks. "We can't solve any of it tonight."

"All right, lad," Deuce says quietly. "I'll send you the video so you can know what he said."

"Goodnight, Corrival."

Deuce hangs up and Erskine considers tossing the phone behind him onto the bed. Instead he pockets it. He gets up as quietly as he can, in case Hopeless is asleep, then bangs into the edge of his doorway with a curse. The shadows turn everything hazy around the edges, unreal. He's so tired. He walks into the kitchen and out onto the balcony that overlooks the street, and he calls Saracen Rue three times. Rue doesn't pick up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter - let me know what you thought!


	5. Unravelling

Erskine wakes. There is that blissful moment of awakening where he doesn't recall yesterday's events nor Deuce's revelation. He lies there, sun falling through the window onto his face, feeling warm and drowsy. Erskine rolls over to go back to sleep. Then he remembers, and swears.

Usually, getting ready for work is a thoughtless routine; Erskine will collect his clothing, shower, and when he's dressed he will have breakfast with Hopeless. It's almost scandalous in how utterly domestic it is. Saracen had stayed at their place one week last year, and he had laughed.

"Why haven't you two married yet?" He had asked.

Erskine pauses and shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about Saracen. He'll wait until he's at work to call the man again, but he doesn't know if he'll get through. Not if Saracen is involved with this movement, as Deuce seems to think. As that unwatched video on his phone will likely prove. 

Today Erskine forgets things as he gets ready. He stumbles, drops stuff, swears under his breath. By the time he's making coffee he already wants the day to end so he can go back to sleep. He stands in the sun, waiting for the coffee to brew, and closes his eyes.

Hopeless walks into the kitchen. They're still in pajamas, and their black hair's all in a tangle. Their grey eyes dart around the room before they meet Erskine's. 

"How did you sleep?" Erskine asks.

"Great, except for when someone got a phone call in the middle of the night."

"You can blame Corrival for that," Erskine says grumpily.

Hopeless sits on the kitchen table and yawns. Erskine passes them their toast, they take it thoughtlessly. There's a small frown at the corners of their mouth. 

"What happened that couldn't wait for the morning?" Hopeless asks.

"Apparently Saracen is in one of those films. Deuce sent me a link to it."

Hopeless' head shoots up, forehead scrunched. "What? What did Saracen do?"

"I haven't looked."

Hopeless yawns and slides off the table. They give him a long, knowing look. For the hundredth time, Erskine wonders how many of his fears Hopeless can hear. He suspects he's an open book to his friend, perhaps too much so.

Hopeless' voice brooks no argument. "All right, let's watch it together then."

"I need to get to work soon." 

Hopeless waves a lazy hand. "You'll have time. It won't be long."

Hopeless retrieves their laptop and after a quick search they find the video. It's 6:45 minutes of a talk show; one of those news programs that get guests to talk about current events, the sort Erskine would never watch. Erskine fast-forwards the introduction until Saracen walks into the interview room. The man is smiling widely, wearing one of his suits, and he shakes the hand of the presenter. This is his charming face, the one he puts on when he wants something, or needs to be diplomatic. It's only been a month since Erskine last saw his friend. Then he had looked quietly anxious. Now purpose and friendliness is radiating off him.

"Hullo," the presenter says, looking already half-charmed. "Saracen Rue?"

"Yup, that's me. Thanks for having me here." Saracen sits at the desk. 

"We've heard that you're behind these 'magical' videos that are going viral across the world. Could you tell us about that, please?"

"Of course," Saracen says. His shoulders are relaxed, he's smiling gently and genuinely. "That's what I'm here for."

"No," Erskine pause the video and steps back. "No, no, no."

Hopeless watches him as he paces to the door and back again. There's something quietly unimpressed about their expression.

"Can we just watch this?"

Erskine stares. "You - why are you so calm about this? He's betraying us. He's ..."

"He's not betraying you, Erskine," Hopeless says sharply. "Has he said you're a sorcerer? Has he named you as being involved in _whatever this is_?"

"Probably not." Erskine says after a moment. 

"Just watch it." They press play.

Saracen continues. "I should just say I'm not the only person behind these videos. It certainly wasn't my idea. I'm just here to ... claim responsibility for my part of it, explain why we're doing it."

"Who else is involved?"

"I don't think those people want to be named," Saracen says, smiling. "I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. So, why are you making these videos? I've seen them, and the actors all claim to be actually magical. Why this ridiculous lie? What are you trying to achieve? It seems like a peculiar bid for attention."

"Oh, it's definitely a bid for attention," Saracen laughs. "But it's not a lie. We all have magic, albeit different sorts of magic and different levels of power. And, well, our aim is to break down centuries of secrecy and lies."

The presenter leans forward, smiling. She looks like she doesn't believe a word. "Secrecy and lies?"

"There's a whole community out there, across the world, a whole system of government and cultures and institutions, all for magical people. We hide our world from you, have for centuries. At first it was to avoid persecution, now it's become our way of life. And it was definitely necessary at first. But I, and the people with me, are tired of hiding. We want to work with non-magical people, to create a world where people don't need to hide, and leave families."

"That's definitely an interesting story."

"There's so much to tell you all," Saracen says, genuinely. "And I know it's hard to believe. I know you think I'm insane right now. But it's true."

Erskine looks away. He knows Saracen's expression, it's lit up in that rare show of true passion. He's not quite zealous, but he's obviously invested in the idea and the movement. 

"So, I'll ask you the obvious question, then. If you're part of this magical community, what's your power?"

"I know things," Saracen says, tapping his nose, and the woman laughs.

"Most people don't label that as _magic_. Does that mean everyone's magical?"

"No, not like that," Saracen says, grinning. "I know things that mortals - sorry, non-magical folks - wouldn't. Like ..."

The interview goes on. Saracen talks about the war. He discusses the Dead Men and given and taken names. He talks and talks and laughs and, in his last comment, he faces the camera directly.

"We won't force anyone to reveal their powers. But if you're like me or my friends, and you want to stop hiding, join us. Come onto the streets and show everyone who you are and what you can do. It's time for us to stop living in the shadows. It's time for us to coexist with the mortals, peacefully."

The presenter takes over hesitantly, and ends the segment. The video ends on a black screen.

Erskine steps away. There's bitterness in his mouth, a chill in his brain.

"Well," Hopeless says, an indecipherable emotion in their voice. 

"You said he wasn't betraying me, Hopeless." Erskine says. "But he just destroyed what Corrival and I have worked on for over a century."

"Erskine ..." Hopeless says quietly, suddenly hesitant.

"I need to go to work," Erskine says, and leaves.

Out the door Erskine goes, down the steps and onto the street. It's a gorgeous day, sunny, cloudless. His hands shake when he tries to open the car door, and he almost drops the keys. He exhales, and leans his forehead against the cool car window until he's calm enough to open the door. He sits in the driver's seat. He takes a moment just to look down the tree-lined, leafy, mortal street. 

Damn Hopeless, and damn Saracen, and damn everyone that voted him in. Damn them all. Erskine starts the car.

Saracen Rue wakes to fifteen missed calls and the knowledge that people are coming to arrest him. He looks up at the white plaster ceiling, blinks, and rolls out of bed. The woman he's staying with has already left for work, and she won't be back until night at least. Kira will understand why he didn't say goodbye. Hopefully. Admittedly, he has thought that in the past and been terribly wrong, but this is a different situation. Saracen throws his clothing into his suitcase and gets dressed. He pockets his wallet and phone, glances everything over, and leaves out the backdoor. He doesn't take the suitcase, Kira will send it after him and he mustn't be weighed down.

Moscow in the morning is beautiful, but that's not why he came to this city. The spires and domes glint, and clouds the colour of ripe apricots and plums hang across the skyline. The air is cold. Saracen digs his hands into his pockets, bows his head under his hood, and walks down the cobblestone streets. He knows a teleporter who lives across the city that'll take him to Dublin for free, but he doesn't call him because they'll be tapping his phone. Saracen doesn't know if it's the government or other parties that wishes to arrest him, it doesn't matter either way. He can't let himself be caught here, in this foreign country, not under the charges he'll face. 

There's a man across the street smoking. He's tall, face shaven, well-built. Saracen turns down the closest alley he can find. Soon enough, he hears footsteps behind him. Saracen breaks into a jog, passing fire-escapes and unlabeled doors. He turns the corner and races up the closest flight of steps. They're rusty and slippery from last night's rain. At the top there's an emergency exit, propped open by a roll of newspaper. Saracen slips inside and shuts the door. He needs to loose his pursuer and get down onto the street, hail a cab. He takes out his phone and unlocks it as he runs down the blue corridor. It's a residential apartment. There is a lift to his right on the next corner, and if he runs right to the end of this corridor and goes right he'll find a flight of steps. The grey carpet softens the sound of his racing feet. Saracen realises he won't reach the downstairs landing before he is caught.

Ahead of him, a young man with bleached hair opens his apartment door. Saracen skids to a stop.

"Please let me in," he says, in Russian. "They're trying to kill me."

The man looks him over and gestures inside. Saracen darts into the apartment. It's small, walls moldy from decades of damp. There's a smell of rot in the air.

"Is there a window?" Saracen asks.

The man nods and points. Saracen hurries into the kitchen, pushes the window open with a grunt. 

"What are you doing?" The man asks, concerned. 

"Thanks for your help," Saracen says.

"What are you ..."

Saracen climbs out of the window carefully, legs first. Standing on a ledge, he shuts the window as the man makes frantic gestures, and starts to climb around. Cars race by below, and Saracen is only three stories up but he can feel his heart rate increasing. It's been a while since he's done anything like this; hopefully not too long. Saracen shuffles to the next window and hooks his arm around one of the window bars, pulls out his phone. He presses the top number in his recent calls, and holds the device to his ear.

"Hullo Saracen," Hopeless says. Their voice is off and distant. If Saracen had any time at all he'd ask, but he doesn't.

"They're after me," Saracen says calmly. "They're going to arrest me."

"What? Where are you?"

"Moscow. I'm maybe a block from Kira's place. I'm going to get Fletcher to teleport me home, but if I'm not there by this afternoon I'm probably in jail."

"Who's after you?"

"Not sure," Saracen says, and starts to shuffle to his right. There's another ladder three windows away. If he gets that then he can make it to the street. There is a taxi rank just below. 

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Hopeless." Saracen grunts. "Just send me a lawyer if they catch me, yeah?"

"I will if I have to. Don't get caught," they say. "I don't want to see another Dead Man in prison."

Saracen grimaces. "Thanks for the reminder. I'll do my best." 

Hopeless hangs up. Saracen slides his phone back in his pocket and almost slips the next step he takes. He curses under his breath, then continues more cautiously. Don't look down at the cars and pedestrians below. Don't think about the pistol in that man's coat pocket. Don't think about what the Dead Men will think when they hear that he's in prison. Keep going. Larrikin is across the continent, he won't heal you if you trip.

It will be hilarious if this is the way I die, Saracen thinks darkly. After centuries of fighting and bloodshed, if I die just from falling off a building. 

By the time he reaches the landing and the ladder, his hands are shaking. He doesn't even see the man behind him, nor the fist that strikes the back of his head. Saracen trips, and before he re-orientates himself the man throws him against the rusty metal staircase. His skull collides with the railing, and Saracen drops like a stone.


	6. Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware: this chapter has references to unhealthy drinking. Dexter is not in a great headspace.
> 
> Just to clarify, this is a flashback.

19--

Dexter woke to a throbbing in his skull. He pulled the bed covers over his head. His stomach roiled, but below the sickness he felt a deep, heavy ache, one stemming from misery more than any physical ailment. He had drunk a lot the last night, the last week. Indeed, when he thought back over the last days it was a blur, featuring flashes of emotion and half-remembered actions. Dexter blinked and pushed himself to a sitting position, racking his brain. He had left Dublin in a whir of anger and distress and he had booked this hotel a couple of days ago, a decision fueled by a clear purpose. There was something he needed to do today, something important. He had organised it in a drunken pique. It was something he'd been avoiding for a while, now. For the life of him, he couldn't recall what it was.

Dexter pushed down the old sadness, that strange curling anger, and got to his feet. There was a wine bottle on the table next to his bed, three-quarters empty. Beneath it was a scrap of paper. Dexter glanced around the room, with its white walls and modest design, and stumbled into the washroom. He splashed his face with water until he felt more alive, and took a shower, brushed his teeth, took some painkillers for good measure. When he was feeling almost functional he reemerged into the bedroom, and pulled the scrap of paper from under the bottle. It was in an unfamiliar hand. Dexter looked it over with growing unease; the Cyrillic writing was hard to decipher, but Dexter managed it. 

_Visiting hours: 11:00-16:00, Saturday_

So this was what he had decided to do, in a thoughtless alcohol-infused moment. This was why he was here, in Moscow. Of course it was. Dexter glanced at the clock set upon the wall. It was almost 10:00AM and Dexter hadn't even eaten breakfast. With a feeling of resignation, he shoved the note into his pocket, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed out of his room and down onto the street.

Dexter walked in an aimless manner down the street, passing men and women in working clothes with downcast expressions. There were children running in the street. Dexter tried to look as ordinary as possible, with his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes downcast. He disliked being in the Soviet Union; there were horrible things happening here, and every time Dexter visited he wondered if this was what the world would feel like, had Mevolent won. Why Skulduggery was here, Dexter didn't rightly know. There were other safer, stabler places for him to be.

Dexter passed a red-haired gentleman entering an office complex, and his heart stuttered. He thought of Larrikin, not with that soft fondness that he always felt when thinking of the man, but with a sharp stab of pain. They had had an argument, had yelled and sworn and slammed doors and Dexter had walked away. Then he had traveled across the continent. Dexter's stomach rolled, and he decided to forsake breakfast altogether, walking faster than before.

The entrance to the Russian Sanctuary's Prison Complex was underwhelming. Its façade was an old apartment block, with two stories. Looking up at it, Dexter was given the impression that imminent collapse was probable. The windows looked smashed, the roof caved in, the walls grey and unappealing. Dexter shrugged, and walked into the foyer. An elderly man looked up from the counter.

"Hullo, I'm here to visit someone," Dexter said.

The man nodded. "Dexter Vex? You're the only one with an appointment. I'll show you in."

Dexter was examined for weapons, his passport checked, and his magic muted by a slim silver cuff clipped onto his wrist.

"Precautions," the man had said. "I'm sure you understand."

Dexter nodded, and then he was lead down to the lower levels, past silent cleavers, to a grotty room. He was asked to sit at the table, and to wait, and then the man left. Dexter sat there, feeling the weight of the city above him. His breath was white with water vapour, and he massaged the cuff thoughtlessly. A different man entered. He was younger, fidgety.

"Are you sure you want to meet him? You know what he did?"

Dexter glared. "I fought with him in the war. Yes, I'm sure."

"Alright," the man said, opening the door. Skulduggery Pleasant was led, cuffed, into the room. 

The first thing Dexter noticed was not the ringing of chains, nor the quality of his prison uniform, nor the three cleavers escorting him. The first thing he saw was the tilt of Pleasant's skull, the way it was positioned. If the skeleton had eyes, he would be staring at the ground. Suddenly, Dexter's mouth was dry.

"I'll leave you two to it."

"How much time do we have?"

"As much as you want, until 4:00pm," the man said, shrugging. "This one doesn't get many visitors."

"Thank you." Dexter said. They left.

Skulduggery was slow. He walked curiously, much too hesitant, much too awkward. The cuffs around his wrists jangled with every step. Finally, he sat. Dexter felt his throat close over, the way it did when he was about to start crying, and silence engulfed them both. 

"How are you?" He asked, finally, hands clasped on the table.

Skulduggery looked up.

"I've been better," he admitted, quietly. 

Dexter's lips compressed. He nodded. 

"How about you?" Skulduggery asked, every word an effort. "Are you and Larrikin fighting again?"

Dexter started, and snorted. "Show off. I'm ... I'm managing. So is Larrikin."

"Good," Skulduggery said. 

Another pause.

"Why are you here, Dexter?"

"I needed to talk to you, I haven't talked with you since ... since you were charged."

"You haven't," Skulduggery said wryly. "I'm surprised you visited at all."

"I am too," Dexter said, sitting back. "I just ..."

Skulduggery finally met his gaze and Dexter shivered reflexively. He couldn't reconcile the idea that the man he had fought beside, the man he would have died for ten times over, was unconscionably evil. The fact couldn't register. This was his friend's voice, if weary and tired and empty, these were his friend's mannerisms, the curve of his shoulders and head. Dexter had fought on the same battlefield as Lord Vile, had seen what that necromancer could do. Skulduggery would never do anything like that. He couldn't. 

"There are rumours that you were set up," Dexter said slowly. "That you were framed."

Skulduggery shook his head, once. Dexter blinked back sudden tears. 

"Why? Why did you do this? ... How could you?"

Skulduggery shifted infinitesimally. "Is this really why you're here?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I heard that you booked a visitation I assumed, well," Skulduggery's head tipped upwards, towards the ceiling. "I assumed you were here to yell, or hit me. Or kill me."

Dexter stood up so abruptly that his chair screeched. "What? No." 

"Why do you think they gave you so much time with me? I wouldn't blame you."

Dexter shook his head. "I wouldn't do that, I'm not, you're _family,_ Skulduggery. I don't hurt my family."

Skulduggery flinched. Dexter had the awful creeping idea that Skulduggery would prefer violence and anger, rather than questions. 

"You haven't answered me," Dexter said.

"After I was resurrected, I was so angry," Skulduggery said. "So very angry. After a while it became easier to accept that feeling, to become it, than to keep fighting."

"... That's it?" Dexter asked, dully.

"Yes, that's why. It's not an excuse. I'm have no excuses. There are none."

"Have you told the others this?"

Skulduggery tilted his head. "They don't visit. Well, except for Hopeless and Saracen. And I think they already know some of this already."

Dexter nodded. "Is there anything you need? How are you treated?"

"... Books would be nice, pens, paper. They don't let me out; I don't need food or exercise." Skulduggery said. "It's more than I deserve."

"Alright," Dexter said. "I'll arrange that."

Dexter stood, emotions foggy and distant. He needed to get out, to leave this man and this place. He had an image in his head of Skulduggery sitting cross-legged in a windowless cell, staring at the door. Dexter stopped, feeling the overwhelming weight of wrongness; Skulduggery shouldn't be here, trapped and alone and magic-less. Skulduggery's voice was almost a whisper. 

"Wait."

"What?" Dexter asked quietly, looking at his friend's - enemy's - motionless form. 

"How's Ghastly?"

Clear, powerful anger seized Dexter Vex for a moment. 

"How do you _think_?" 

Skulduggery flinched, stronger than before. Dexter sighed.

"I'll write," he promised quietly, and paused. "For the record, Lord Vile is a _stupid_ name."

Skulduggery laughed once, surprised. 

Dexter left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback is welcome!


	7. Panic, politics and plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're back in the present. 
> 
> Happy Pride Month everyone!

That morning as usual, Skulduggery pulls up across the road to Valkyrie's parents' house. Valkyrie sees his arrival through the window and shouts a quick goodbye to her parents, racing out the door. She's grinning before she even crosses the road. He's got the Bentley back, and she's _beautiful_. Sleek and black and classy, and no mauve to be seen. Valkyrie jumps into the front passenger seat and looks at Skulduggery. Her smile disappears. 

"What's wrong?"

"Saracen's the one behind the videos. He just encouraged more mages to join his cause."

Valkyrie laughs. Skulduggery doesn't. She stops, and stares.

"You're serious?"

"I am," Skulduggery says. "In fact, I'm hurt at the question. I'm always serious."

Valkyrie ignores this. "Why is Saracen involved in this?"

"I don't really know. He was in a television interview, you should probably watch it. Erskine sent you the link, I think." Skulduggery begins to drive.

Valkyrie checks her messages. Skulduggery is right; under a curt explanatory sentence from Erskine there's a link to a YouTube video. Valkyrie's thumb hovers over it, but she doesn't tap it. She'll watch it when Skulduggery isn't here. He probably doesn't want to hear it again.

"So, what do we do?" Valkyrie says. "If Saracen is the one responsible for this?"

"Exactly what we were doing before." Skulduggery says.

"But ... it's Saracen." Valkyrie frowns. "Has anyone talked to him?"

"We've all tried calling. We haven't gotten through. He's in Russia as far as I'm aware, so he's not really our problem right now."

Valkyrie stares. "Surely you feel something about this? He's basically your brother, and he's just gone behind all our backs to expose us to mortals. Don't you feel anything?"

Skulduggery accelerates slightly. "What do you want me to say, Valkyrie? That one of my best friends just betrayed us? That he didn't even trust us to tell us what he was doing face-to-face? Because that's all I have been thinking about since I got the news, and if I'm to do my job effectively I need to put that all aside. Maybe he's right. Maybe we're set in ways that don't suit our lifestyles anymore."

Valkyrie whistles. "Don't tell Deuce you think that."

Skulduggery glances at Valkyrie. "Don't worry, I won't."

Valkyrie looks out the window.

"Cheer up. We're arresting more protesters today."

Valkyrie turns. "What? Aren't we too late to stop this, now?"

"Of course we're not too late, Valkyrie," Skulduggery says. "If we shut this down now, suppress the movement and come up with a believable story, we can stay hidden. I admit that the longer we let this get out of control, the more difficult it will be, but we still have time."

"Alright," Valkyrie says. "So, when Saracen returns, are we arresting him too?"

"I'd say so," Skulduggery says.

"God, this is such a mess." Valkyrie says. "What if people take up Saracen's call? What if they all start to out themselves?"

"We cross that bridge when we come to it," Skulduggery says. 

"That's ... really not reassuring."

"It wasn't supposed to be," Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie wants to say something funny, something lighthearted and slightly callous that will make Skulduggery laugh and make her feel less uneasy. No words come.

"Valkyrie, even if magic gets revealed, we'll deal with it. We've lived through bigger changes."

"Like what?" Valkyrie says, vaguely grumpily.

"I was born in a feudal society and saw it transition to a democracy," Skulduggery points out. "That's pretty significant."

"Pfft," Valkyrie says. "That's barely a change."

Skulduggery's head rotates towards her. "Do you know what feudal means?"

"That's the same as feud, right?" Valkyrie says slowly. "And democracy is all about people arguing about stuff, so. Basically the same thing."

Skulduggery keeps driving, absolutely silent. 

"... I know what feudal means," she admits when the silence becomes heavy.

"Good," Skulduggery says. "I was beginning to wonder whether you slept through thirteen years of government-funded education."

"I slept through, like, the last two years, at most," Valkyrie says. "What? Training with you all was exhausting."

"It was your decision to do school and your apprenticeship at the same time," Skulduggery says. 

"Yeah, and it was my decision to sleep in class. Sleep is important."

"I wouldn't know. I spent a century staring at walls."

"Staring at walls?" 

"Metaphorically, that is." 

"How is that a metaphor?"

"If you're not smart enough to understand it, I'm not going to explain."

"... You're so weird."

"I do try," Skulduggery says, a little too proudly for Valkyrie's liking.

The day consists of arrests and interrogations. The stories are all the same, or similar. Valkyrie asks the man at the counter in the afternoon, and according to his records thirty people were admitted to these cells on the charge of breaking the Secrecy Laws. Valkyrie soon gets tired of the same questions; who are you working for? How did you join the movement? Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this? One woman, being asked these questions, had laughed in their faces: _you can't stop us now!_ Valkyrie feels ill to the stomach.

And then Skulduggery gets a call as they wait outside Erskine's office. 

"Hello," he says, then goes quiet for a long moment. "Don't panic. Take a moment. What happened?"

Valkyrie looks up, waggles her eyebrows. Skulduggery holds up a finger and turns away.

"Look ... do you know who it is? Alright, you're sure? ... I don't know why you're worried, we'd just do the same here anyway. _Ah_. Russia? I'll tell Erskine, though you could just do that yourself."

Skulduggery hangs up. 

"What?" Valkyrie says.

"I admire your eloquence. That was Hopeless." Skulduggery says. "Saracen's in prison in Russia, which sorts that problem out."

"Oh," Valkyrie says. "Why were they panicking?"

"Russian prisons aren't the most welcoming of places, generally speaking, and we've had experience with this specific one. I suppose it brings back bad memories for them."

"They were in prison?"

"No," Skulduggery says. "That was me, I'm afraid."

"You _what_?"

"I was the one in prison, do keep up. There's Erskine," Skulduggery says, with too much flippancy to be believed, and he walks away toward the rapidly approaching figure.

Valkyrie thinks it over, and shakes her head. "You have a very strange sense of humour sometimes."

"Valkyrie, Skulduggery!" Erskine says. "How are you both?"

"Alright, I suppose," Valkyrie answers. "How about you?"

"I'm okay, all things considered. Come into my office."

They all enter his barren office, and Erskine waits for them both to sit before he closes the door. Then he raises a hand and a wall of shimmering air rises between them and the corridor's wall. His smile disappears when he looks at both of them, and he sits. Valkyrie examines the man. Something is different in the way he holds himself, the way he looks at them both. There is something broken in his posture, she realises. Something quiet and desperate in his eyes, thinly veiled.

"I need you both to be completely honest with me." Erskine says.

"... Of course," Skulduggery says, delicately.

"Did you know about Saracen? I promised Deuce that the Dead Men aren't involved, but I need you to tell me the truth."

"Of course we didn't know about it," Valkyrie says, a little affronted.

"Skulduggery?"

The skeleton shifts in his seat. 

"If you have been plotting with Saracen, after all the allowances we gave you ..." Erskine starts.

"Allowances?" Valkyrie asks, frowning.

The Dead Men always make these allusions, to some past event they refuse to name. She's tired of it. Skulduggery cuts her off before she continues.

"I didn't know he was part of this." 

"Honestly? And the others?" Erskine asks, intent. 

"As far as I am aware, Saracen was acting alone," Skulduggery says. "Or at least, without our help. You'll have to ask them all personally, but I don't think they're part of this movement."

"Alright," Erskine says, sitting back. "Good."

"Was that all you asked us here for?" Valkyrie says, crossing her arms. "To ask whether we've betrayed you?"

"Of course not," Erskine says. "There has been a development."

Ravel cards through papers on his desk until he retrieves a slender file. He passes it to Skulduggery, who opens it immediately. Valkyrie leans over to look at it. There are printed copies of emails and texts, an honest-to-god letter, some articles and a map.

"We - well, I - got an official request of assistance from a group of warlocks near Cork. They're concerned that mortals have found their village, and want some Sanctuary guards and support."

"Since when do warlocks worry about mortals?" Valkyrie asks. 

"Since members of their community have been killed by them." Erskine says. "A woman called Amatis Llewellyn was murdered last night, apparently by mortal weapons."

"That's unusual," Skulduggery says. 

"What's even more unusual is that they're asking for our help. They're scared. With the Sanctuaries so uncertain, and magic being revealed, they want proper support. They want our Detectives to find out who killed her. They asked for you two specifically, but I'll ask Dexter to go as well, with some cleavers."

"They asked for us?" Valkyrie asks, surprised. She has had dealing with warlocks before. It wasn't a positive experience for either party.

Erskine looks down at the table, rubs his eyes. "Yeah."

"Have there been any mentions of Department X?" 

"Yeah." Erskine nods. "I put all the information I have in that folder. I need you not to tell anyone about this, not until we have more information. Not even Mist or Deuce. Everyone's on the verge of panic, and I don't want to spread any more fear. I need you to go down there, find out who's doing this, arrest them, and sort this situation out before it becomes chaos."

"We can do that," Skulduggery says, standing. "Ah. Hopeless called. Rue is in prison in Russia."

"In Moscow?" Erskine asks.

"Yes," Skulduggery says. "Thought you'd like to know."

"Alright," Erskine says. "That's ... I'll talk to the Russian Sanctuary."

Skulduggery lowers his head in a half-nod. 

"Will you get them to release him?" Valkyrie asks. 

"I don't know what I'll do," Erskine says quietly. "We'll see."

"Hopeless is upset," Skulduggery says, and pauses. 

"I'll talk to them too, then," Erskine says. "Is there anything else?"

"You're really good at giving orders." Skulduggery says. "I'd almost say you enjoy sending us off."

"It's the single joy in my futile existence," Erskine says, deadpan. "Keep in contact. And for Christ's sake, do _not_ let Mist know what you're doing."

"Yes, your holiness," Skulduggery says, but the jab is half-hearted, words distracted.

Valkyrie and Skulduggery leave the office, and Erskine picks up his phone. Dexter calls them soon after; they meet in the car park. The cleavers are already there, and they set off. They take a black van large enough to fit them all, and they leave the city. Valkyrie's shoulders relax just a little when they're out in the countryside, and she doesn't say anything, watching the curving green hills pass by. It'd be idyllic, if Skulduggery and Dexter weren't discussing strategy in the front of the vehicle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little unsure about my pacing with this story. Is it too slow? Does it work?
> 
> I'm hoping to continue with this story, but I can't promise regular updates unfortunately. 
> 
> Also, I know that canonically Skulduggery says he's not a hypocrite, but after how he murdered Ravel I'm taking that under consideration. And, since Valkyrie doesn't really know he was imprisoned nor why, she's not in a position to call him out when he calls Rue a traitor.


	8. Close of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what to name this chapter so I just nicked some Dylan Thomas (it's from Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night).

If one were to ask Hopeless why they were avoiding Erskine Ravel the immediate response would be a glare. Hopeless might also refute the accusation verbally. After all, for the rest of the day after Saracen's call they are busy and don't feel the need to bother their friend. It's not a big thing, especially after the almost fight they'd had that morning.

This response would be a little misleading. For one, while Hopeless _is_ very preoccupied with following up on Saracen's request - getting him lawyers, contacting Anton, working out where he's imprisoned and under what charge exactly - they also let a call from Erskine ring out while they are eating lunch in a park in Dublin. They don't want to see him, however much they need his comfort and his assurance that Saracen will be okay and that this is not Skulduggery's trial all over again. They don't want to feel his fears for Saracen on top of their own, or, worse, his lack of concerns. They can't handle Erskine's distress about the global situation, not now, and perhaps that makes them awful. But what does that matter? Hopeless is a terrible person already. What if Erskine tells them not to help Saracen, and they actually fight this time? Saracen might have done something dangerous and unexpected, but he is Saracen, and that is all that matters to Hopeless, really.

When Erskine does not come home that night they consider calling, but they decide against it. When they rise with the knowledge that he is still absent, something twists in their gut. He sends a text around one and they read it with a rising feeling of illness. _Come to Sanctuary now. Tell no one._ They get in their car immediately.

People in the Sanctuary are jumpy. Hopeless ignores their fears with determination, and walks swiftly through the complex toward Erskine's office. It's hard to do so. Ravel's fears are so strong today that they seem to sink into the entire building, curling into the walls and twining around Hopeless' feet. This situation cannot continue. 

There are cleavers outside Erskine's closed door. Hopeless eyes them, but turns the doorknob without pausing. Inside the room the fear is even heavier, and if Hopeless had not had centuries of practise at dealing with this power they would be incapable of doing anything much except for curling in a corner somewhere. Ravel's seated. He's looking at files. His hands are flat on the desk so that they don't shake, an old habit of his in times of stress when he wishes to seem more heartless than he is.

"Erskine?" Hopeless asks.

He looks up. Hopeless bites their lip and forces themself to walk over to him. They don't touch him, just hover at his shoulder. His eyes are red.

"Deuce is dead."

Hopeless doesn't move.

"Someone snuck into the meeting room and smashed the computers and _killed him_."

The 'computers' are the Irish Sanctuary's primary way to access and censor the mortal internet. They are large, important machines. They were being used to take down the protestors' videos as they came up.

Hopeless feels their cheeks heat up the way they do when emotions are controlling their body. Not Deuce. Deuce was _their commander_ , their leader, the one General who'd survived, a friend and an ally. Hopeless has not always agreed with his ideology, but that never lessened their respect for him.

And Deuce was Erskine's friend, the person he looked up to after his father died.

"Who did this?" Their voice is cracked, like paint on an old portrait.

"We don't know. We shut the Sanctuary down - no-one may leave. I need you to find who did this, if they are in the building still."

"Are Dexter and Skulduggery here?" Hopeless asks, trying to think. Between the three of them they would have a fair chance of screening all the employees, but Hopeless' power alone is subjective and unreliable.

Erskine shakes his head. "I haven't heard from them. I've been trying to get in contact."

Hopeless swears. "What about Cassandra? Or any other sensitives?"

Erskine shakes his head. "We can't trust them."

Hopeless frowns. Erskine's fears are coupled with the certainty that there is a traitor. Which makes sense, if someone managed to assassinate Deuce here.

Erskine is still talking. Hopeless tries desperately to focus on his words.

"... we can assume it was the protesters, or someone who shares their ideology."

It's like being bathed in cold air after walking in the Spanish summer heat for hours. Hopeless stares.

"They're peaceful protesters. They didn't do this."

"Corrival was their biggest obstacle," Erskine pauses, looks away. He's bunching the paper he was reading in his hands, almost ripping it. "It would be foolish to ignore that. Perhaps they were sabotaging the equipment and he found them."

Hopeless looks at his profile. "You can't pin this on a group because you don't agree with their ideology."

" _God_ , is that what you think of me?" Erskine snaps. "Is that why you didn't even call me about Saracen? Why do you even care to live with me, if that's what you think?"

"Erskine, it's what it sounds like." Hopeless says, and runs a hand through their hair, frustrated. "And I live with you because I love you. That's it. But what reason would they have to murder? Their plans are _working_ , right now."

"I found these in his desk," Erskine says softly, and he passes the crumpled paper to Hopeless. They look it over, and still.

"These are petitions."

"Some of them are from 1902, before we even got the Secrecy Pact signed."

"How many people ...?" Hopeless breathes.

"I don't know. He never told me he got these."

"He didn't? Whyever not?" Hopeless takes another paper. The signatures are old, and the paper long, and Hopeless feels like someone has sucked all the air out of their body. 

"They've been trying to get us to change for over a _century_ ," Erskine says, and he sounds almost like he's drowning. 

"Why would he keep these?" Hopeless wonders. "Surely he would burn them if he did not want to listen to them?"

"It's got names, Hopeless, why would he destroy useful information like that?" Erskine is pale.

"Why indeed," Hopeless murmurs to themself, thinking. 

Then they freeze. Erskine has started to cry silently, one hand on his face.

"You found him," they murmur, and they must be wrong, surely they're wrong, but Erskine just looks at them. They have a sudden clear image of Deuce lying on a carpet, face slack, skin still warm. 

"Hopeless," Erskine says, and they hug him as he sobs. He pushes them away despite the way he's still shaking. "Find the traitor. Please."

Hopeless' jaw jumps. "Okay," they say, and they feel cold and hot and empty.

Erskine scrubs his face angrily and stands.

"No," Hopeless says. "You mustn't come with me. You might be the next target. You need a guard."

"I need to do my job."

"No," Hopeless says gently. "You need to call Fletcher and get him to take you out of here. Go to Grouse."

Erskine's eyes flash. "I'm coming with you."

Hopeless grimaces. "Alright. I'll give you a moment."

They step out into the corridor, and take as much time as they can snatch to simply breathe. Their mind is full of Erskine's fears, and their own. They try not to think about Deuce. They don't even know where his body is. They lean against the wall, and appreciate how the cleavers ignore them completely. How can they untwist the web of fear around them to find the one person afraid of being caught? It's impossible. If Skulduggery or even Dexter were here they would be able to deduce the culprit.

With this in mind Hopeless rings Dexter's phone, but the number is unavailable. They frown. They call him again, and then Skulduggery, and then Valkyrie, and get through to none of them. They call Ghastly and he picks up after four rings.

"Can you come into the Sanctuary please?" Hopeless says.

"Is everything alright?"

"No," they say, and their stomach roils. "Please... Deuce is dead."

Ghastly pauses. Hopeless waits for questions they don't think they can answer. 

"I'll be there in ten."

He hangs up.

"Thank you," Hopeless says anyway.

They turn to see Erskine walk out of his office. It's as if the past three days have never occurred, for he looks calm, except for the redness around his eyes. The cleavers fall in behind him silently, and Hopeless pushes themself off the wall, their own mask appearing. 

"Ghastly's going to be here soon."

Erskine looks at Hopeless, expression difficult to interpret. 

"Alright," he says shortly, and the two of them walk down the corridor toward the main part of the Sanctuary, where people are still working or talking anxiously to each other. Hopeless brushes away their own concerns, and tries to listen to the fear in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I dereked this bad boy, sorry).


	9. A Nice, Relaxing Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Drakkonis for reminding me that a "strong independent woman" is a phrase people use!

The warlock's village is antique, something straight out of an historical drama. The people, however, don't fit that image. A woman with massive claws walks past Dexter and Valkyrie and stares at them, and a child with horns is skipping in the street. It's mid-afternoon, sky cloudy. 

"Is your phone not working either?" Valkyrie asks.

Dexter's leaning against the door of the house with crossed arms and a flat expression. Skulduggery is within, talking to the person who reportedly witnessed the crime. The woman had refused to talk to Valkyrie or Dexter, which had startled all of them but Skulduggery especially. 

Dexter shoves a hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve it. He turns it on and frowns.

"I haven't got any reception at all." 

"Me neither."

"Must be the warlocks' doing," Dexter guesses. "It'll make it a little more difficult for them to be discovered by mortals."

"I suppose," Valkyrie says. She doesn't like the idea of being unable to contact anyone or get help. They'd stayed the night under the warlocks' insistence, rather, the insistence of the mayor. They've already been to the crime scene; a glade in a forest where Amatis had been allegedly shot. There had been nothing of note, nothing to identify the killer at all, just some disturbed leaves and blood. The body had been taken into the village church and they were refusing to let any of them enter to examine it. 

"Am I the only one who feels that we're not wanted here?" Dexter murmurs, eyes scanning the mostly empty street. "Erskine said they requested us."

"Yeah," Valkyrie says. "Something's not right."

Dexter nods. Valkyrie watches as he forces the grimness out of his face, and then he looks at her with gentle eyes.

"Are you and your folks okay?"

Valkyrie scowls. "Did Skulduggery put you up to this?"

"What?" Dexter says, startled. Then he grins. "What did he do?"

"He just suggested that I tell them about my magic before they find out from someone else."

"Oh," Dexter says. "I thought he'd done something more insensitive. I'm assuming you don't want to do that?"

Valkyrie crosses her arms tightly.

"Okay, moving on." 

"Talking about uncomfortable topics, when are you all going to tell me what happened with Skulduggery?"

Dexter's gaze flicks away from Valkyrie immediately. "What specifically? Lots of things happened to Skulduggery."

"See, that's not suspicious at all. You know what I'm talking about. The thing you all mention but never actually _say_."

"Has it occurred to you that there's a reason we don't talk about that?"

"Well, obviously. But if it's as significant as it sounds, then I should know what it is. Me not knowing could be a liability."

Dexter exhales slowly. "Honestly, I don't know how you don't already know."

"You never talk about it so how could I?" Valkyrie snaps.

"Look, during the war Skulduggery ..." Dexter inhales and pauses, leaning his head back against the door so he's looking directly upwards. Valkyrie ignores the way his Adam's apple bobs. "You've heard how it was."

"Not good?" Valkyrie suggests.

"Yeah," Dexter grins, or grimaces, but there's some humour there. "Not good."

"What happened?"

"It really shouldn't be up to me to tell you. But okay. You might want to sit down."

Valkyrie looks around pointedly. The low veranda has no seats whatsoever.

"Or stand like a strong independent woman," Dexter nods. "Well, Skulduggery is ... well. After the war he was imprisoned for ..."

Skulduggery shoves the door open and Dexter jumps forward. The skeleton looks at the two of them, and Dexter looks immediately relieved. 

"Talking about me, I see?"

"Not everything's about you," Dexter says, then he looks at Valkyrie. "Let's talk about this later."

"But ..." Valkyrie glares.

"Come with me. Hurry up." Skulduggery says.

"What did she say?" Dexter asks Skulduggery.

"Follow," Skulduggery says, and he marches off down the road. Dexter and Valkyrie look at each other, and obey. 

The village is small. It clusters around the single main street, and right at the end, next to the tavern, is the mayor's little house. This is Skulduggery's destination, and Valkyrie struggles to keep up with the two Dead Men's pace. Skulduggery bangs on the front door, and when nobody answers he forces the door open.

"Skulduggery," Dexter says, in a low warning.

The skeleton ignores this, and then Valkyrie is following at their heels as they both walk into the mayor's house and into her office. The mage - Gertrude Weimar - stands up, about to say something. Skulduggery cuts this off with a blast of air that throws her into the wall. Valkyrie winces. Dexter looks at both of them, hands glowing softly.

"What exactly are you doing, Detective Pleasant?" Mayor Weimar asks, much too calmly. "Not even a Sanctuary employee is above the law, especially one with a history like yours."

"I'd ask you the same question," Dexter says, and he sounds angry. 

"No-one was killed here. No person called Amatis Llewellyn even exists. This is a trap." Skulduggery says. 

"If this is a trap, why are you still alive?" Weimar asks. Skulduggery lets her go suddenly, and without the air pinning her to the wall she stumbles.

Valkyrie looks at the two of them.

"If this is a trap we should leave now," she says, because despite this being obvious neither of her co-workers are moving. 

"No," Skulduggery says. "We need to work out what's happening first."

"Nothing's happening. I called you on behalf of our community to ask for your help. If you're not willing to give that I ask that you, at bare minimum, do not assault any of my citizens."

"You don't know why they want us here, do you?" Skulduggery says. "Someone else is directing all this."

"I'd ask you to leave ..."

"Only after we get the answers we need," Skulduggery says. 

"Skulduggery, maybe Valkyrie's right," Dexter says quietly. 

"She isn't." Skulduggery says shortly. "Someone told you all to do this, didn't they? Someone with power over you all, and you resent it. Were you to kill us, or just distract us from something else?"

"The Sanctuary can protect you and your community if you're being blackmailed," Dexter adds.

Weimar throws back her head and laughs. Skulduggery tilts his head silently, and asserts even more pressure to her so she splutters. He's so cold in that moment that Valkyrie feels uneasy.

"Who do you think were the people who set this up?" She laughs. 

"What?"

"Your Elders have some lovely little plans and they wanted you out of the way," she says. "Though not dead, as far as I can tell. We couldn't disobey."

"Liar," Dexter says, sharp and cold.

"What are they blackmailing you with?" Skulduggery asks, over Dexter's outrage. "What plans are you talking about?"

"Do you think I'd tell someone like you that?" She asks. Suddenly, her skin is turning grey and teeth sharp and she looks fae or something much worse. She steps through the wall of air and growls. "So now you know. Get out of my house."

Back on the street again, somewhat worse for wear, Skulduggery and Dexter look at each other. 

"Do you believe her?" Valkyrie asks.

"That Erskine is involved?" Dexter says. "No, of course not."

"He was the one who sent us here," Skulduggery notes. 

"But he wouldn't do that in bad faith," Dexter says, pressing his fingers to a bruise across his jaw and wincing.

"Are you sure? He was associated with Mist right before the war ended. They were planning something to do with the mortals. I didn't see how it turned out, obviously, but I assumed he had split from her after he began working with Deuce."

"Why didn't you mention this?" Dexter frowns.

"You didn't really visit much. Let's say that there were other things on my mind."

Valkyrie shakes her head. "You two are going to explain what the hell is going on, but right now we need to get out of here as fast as we can."

She grabs the elbows of both men and steers them towards where they parked the van. The cleavers were here to guard the perimeter, purportedly, but there is one standing by the van. Valkyrie stills, and it looks at all three of them.

"Hullo," Dexter says, with a grin. "Is it alright if we take that vehicle? You don't seem to be using it."

Slowly, the helmeted figure shakes its head. 

"We're Sanctuary detectives," Dexter says, humour gone. "Let us through."

The figure removes the scythe from its back and steps forward. Dexter swears, and his hands light up. Valkyrie clicks her fingers and steps away from the other two.

"We probably should have seen this coming," Skulduggery notes calmly.

Dexter grumbles, and the cleaver steps forward. The scythe sweeps toward Dexter's head and he blocks it with a raised arm. Ghastly's sleeve, as always, protecting. Skulduggery throws a blast of air at the cleaver but it just steps through it, and Valkyrie throws a ball of fire for good measure. This washes over the figure, as benign as water. Dexter steps forward, under another sweep of the scythe, and throws a punch. This connects squarely with the armoured chin of the cleaver, and its head cracks back. Skulduggery steps in, and together Dexter and Skulduggery try to overwhelm it into submission. The cleaver almost drops, but manages to grab Dexter and throw him into Skulduggery. Dexter holds on, and the three tumble onto the ground. Valkyrie tries to catch the cleaver with a burst of air, but is ineffectual. She barely avoids a swinging blade behind her, and she spins. Her heart starts thumping so much it's painful.

Five other cleavers have joined the fight. 

"Let's skedaddle." Valkyrie says, barely jumping out of the way of another blade. 

"You know what?" Dexter says, eyeing three more white-clothed figures heading their way. "Let's do that."

The six are trying to surround them. Dexter fells one with a well-thrown punch, and singes another's uniform with a burst of blue energy. Skulduggery is pulling most of his punches, for some reason, not fighting as hard as he could. Valkyrie is just trying to avoid getting beheaded. She's nineteen, for god's sake. She hasn't the experience needed to fight _cleavers_. The cleavers know this, too, and they are not pulling any punches. The butt of one's scythe clips her in the jaw, and her eyes unfocus. Dexter grabs her shoulder in order to shove her out of the way.

It takes her a moment, in her dazed state, to realise that the person screaming is Dexter. She shakes her head and sees him, on his knees, hand bloody and on his stomach. A cleaver is standing above him, and about to swing again.

Valkyrie raises her hands and, somehow, drags water out of the air. It manifests as a mid-air wave, and crashes into the cleaver, throwing it to the ground. She scrambles over to Dexter, who's pale and isn't screaming anymore. She grabs his shoulders and tries to drag him away from the cleavers. He's heavy, and limp. 

"Dexter?" She says, voice high. "Dexter. On your feet now."

"Is he alright?" Skulduggery asks. He has just thrown a cleaver to the ground and is holding a wall of air between them and the rest. Valkyrie presses a hand to Dexter's injury, but she has nothing to bandage it, and it's large.

"He'll be fine if we get him to Larrikin," she says.

"Can you carry him, if I hold them off?" Skulduggery asks sceptically.

Valkyrie hefts the unconscious Dead Man up, putting his arm around her neck and supporting his back and knees. It's uncomfortable. He's only a little shorter than she is. Valkyrie is suddenly very grateful to Tanith for her training.

"Come on," she says, already breathless, and walks forward as fast as she can.

Skulduggery stays behind for several minutes. Valkyrie feels a draught over her spine, but then he's with her again. 

"Thought you were holding them off?" She snaps. 

"Change of plan," he says. There's something dead about his voice. "Let's take the van."

"What?" Valkyrie spins around, and looks back down the road.

All the cleavers are dead. The ground is bloody. Her stomach lurches and she looks at Skulduggery, eyes wide.

"Hurry up." He says. "We need to get Vex to the Hibernian."

Valkyrie follows Skulduggery to the van, voiceless. They drive out to the perimeter of the village and call Fletcher when they have reception. Valkyrie watches Skulduggery in the rear view mirror. They've pulled over to the side of the road. 

"We need to find out what these people's plan is," Skulduggery says. His voice is normal again. 

Valkyrie's phone buzzes. Valkyrie's still applying pressure to Dexter's wound. Skulduggery takes it, with her nod of consent, and reads the message.

"What is it?"

"Deuce is dead," Skulduggery says calmly. The words are peculiar, and she feels a little dizzy, but she wasn't particularly close with the Grand Mage. Skulduggery, who was, doesn't react. "Ghastly sent a message to know where you are and if you are safe. He's with Ravel now."

"Tell him we were attacked, but we're safe, and Dexter's about to be taken to the Hibernian. 

Skulduggery hums for a moment. "This cannot be a coincidence, that we were sent here for a red herring and then almost killed when we tried to leave."

Valkyrie closes her eyes. "Okay. Tell him to watch out for Ravel and Mist."

Skulduggery's gloved fingers tap away. "Sent."

Valkyrie's world lurches, and then Fletcher appears next to her. She screams, and then so does Fletcher, and Dexter jolts but does not wake.

"What is wrong with you?" Fletcher asks, despairingly. He looks at Dexter and winces. "Give me your hands."

The tug of teleportation is awful as always, and then they're in the hospital ward of the Hibernian Theatre. Larrikin is racing toward them. Skulduggery steps back, and Valkyrie does too. Her ears are ringing and she feels really rather ill. The image of the cleavers sticks in her mind, and when a doctor asks whether she is okay she doesn't answer. 

Dexter doesn't wake, but he breathes.


	10. Attempted Assassinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains goofy canon-typical(ish) violence.

Ghastly doesn't quite know what it says about him, that he is pretty nonplussed when the first cleaver he comes across attempts to kill him. It's in the foyer of the Sanctuary - which is peculiarly empty. On request he shows his papers, and a moment later he is ducking out of the way of a scythe aimed to the throat. Ghastly doesn't think. He throws up an armoured arm to block the blade and then he tugs the cleaver toward him. Before they can react, Ghastly throws several punches, and rips the blade out of the cleaver's grip, just like his ma taught him. Ghastly goes to tug the helmet away, but the cleaver darts backwards. Their posture is wary now.

"Do you know who I am? Your Elder wants me here." Ghastly says, moving toward the figure. They do not respond, of course. 

The figure swings at Ghastly, but Ghastly blocks it easily. He's about to swing the cleaver's own blade at him, when someone behind him cries out. 

"Stand down!"

The cleaver turns their head, but then they move back to stand in their previous position behind the desk. Ghastly keeps the blade up, but risks a glance behind him.

"Any reason why your employees are trying to kill me?" Ghastly asks.

Erskine's face is drawn. He shakes his head, eyes focusing singly on the cleaver, who Ghastly swears is trying to look innocent. Ghastly moves backwards so he's standing with Ravel, and after a moment Erskine checks down the corridor to ensure it's empty, and then speaks again.

"Who gave you the orders to attack Ghastly?" When no answer is forthcoming. "Was it Mist?"

Slowly, the cleaver nods. Ghastly frowns. 

"Why?"

Erskine grimaces. "I assumed - I don't know what I assumed ... You, you're relieved of all duties."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"There are still a couple of empty cells," Ravel says, with a tired shrug. "The administrator can organise that. Can you keep an eye on them for a second?"

Ghastly frowns, but nods. Erskine walks off down the corridor. Ghastly and the cleaver eye each other. Or, Ghastly eyes the cleaver, that visor makes it impossible to tell what they are doing. Erskine's orders seem to be working, however. The cleaver doesn't budge.

Ravel returns with several harried employees, who walk over to the cleaver warily. Ghastly passes someone the scythe, and follows Erskine down the corridor, in the direction of the Elder's offices.

"When did you last _sleep_?" Ghastly asks. 

"I don't _know_ ," Ravel says. "I also don't know what Mist is planning, or where Skulduggery and Dexter are, or who killed Deuce."

"You don't know where Dexter is?" Ghastly says sharply.

Ravel shakes his head. Ghastly pulls out his phone and texts Dexter and Val as he walks. Erskine is scanning their surroundings for both of them, and Ghastly notices that Erskine steers them out of the way of any groups of cleavers. Ghastly glances around.

"Where's Hopeless?" 

"Trying to find the traitor," Erskine says. "Mist is in her office. I thought she was overlooking our screening of everyone in the building. Seems she was the one who we needed to screen."

"Erskine ..." Ghastly starts, suddenly on edge.

"I need you to make sure nobody enters the office, whatever happens, okay?" Erskine fiddles with his long sleeve. "I'll handle her."

"Erskine, you look like shit. Are you sure you want to do this without backup?" 

"Thanks for that, Ghastly." Erskine says. 

"Let's at least get Hopeless."

"We don't have time. Either we confront her now, before she knows that we know that she's up to something, or we wait and she realises what's going on and takes the upper hand. Our only advantage is surprise."

Ghastly sighs. Erskine glances as they turn a corner. His golden eyes are red. Ghastly wishes he still had that scythe, now, but he's much better at hand-to-hand combat anyway. 

"This is a terrible idea," Ghastly says. "We're walking in blind."

"Either you come with me or I go alone," Erskine says sharply. "But either way, shut up."

Ghastly cracks his knuckles. "No, don't worry. I'm coming."

"Good," Erskine says, and he walks even faster down the hall.

"You know," Larrikin says conversationally. "Trying to assassinate a healer with _poison_ is the most stupid idea I've come across. And I usually find myself surrounded by idiots, so the bar is _really_ low."

The Torment grunts. Larrikin steps away from the empty bed and faces the man with a smile. His hands are hanging loose by his side. The would-be assassin is standing right in front of the curtain dividing Vex from the rest of the room. Larrikin takes care not to look away from the Torment's face. He had come in masquerading as a patient, but Larrikin had felt the sting of a spider bite as he examined the man, and realised that the child of the spider was here for something else entirely. 

"Also, why a redback? I was born in Australia, you eegit. Why did you think I wouldn't have a tolerance?"

The man is eyeing Larrikin warily. There are spiders scrambling over his hands and under his skin. Larrikin grimaces. That gives him the heebie-jeebies. No matter. Behind Larrikin are the closed double doors, while the Torment is boxed in. There are no windows. They are in the centre of the Hibernian Theatre. How arrogant is this man, to think he could kill Larrikin and walk out without consequence? Larrikin laughs.

"You don't talk much."

"You talk too much."

"My partner would disagree with that," Larrikin says. "Now. You have two options. Either you try and kill me again, and fail. Or you walk away now. I killed Mevolent, darling, a child of the spider doesn't scare me."

"Then you're more of an idiot than me," the Torment says, eyes boring into Larrikin's, and then he transforms. Larrikin yelps and leaps backwards as the man increases in size, swelling grotesquely. His spider form is even _less_ attractive than his man-form, and Larrikin found _Baron Vengeous_ hotter than him. 

Yes, Larrikin has ranked Mevolent's generals in order of attractiveness. To be fair now, he had been blind drunk and Dexter had egged him on, so it hardly counts as treason.

Larrikin looks up at the monster and wants to say something daring. Instead he jumps out of the way of a sweeping leg and rolls under one of the empty pallets. He can fight the spider for a while, especially if he grabs a scalpel or some such, but he doesn't want to risk Dexter getting seriously hurt _again_. He needs to draw the spider out of the room, into the corridor. Time to get out of here. Larrikin makes for the door, but a blow to his side throws him onto the side of a metal bedrest with a clang. He yelps. There's going to be an awful bruise on his hip. He jumps away from the monster, and spins to face him. He grabs a wooden chair, and shrugs. He takes a moment to heal his aching side and then he swings.

The Torment really doesn't seem to like being hit with a chair. It doesn't actually _do_ much, though Larrikin suspects it hurts the man-spider's pride. He cackles, and goes at it, until he's tackled to the ground by the beast and he has to roll out of reach. It's not Larrikin's fault he's small. He pops back up again, and ducks under three hits only to be thrown through the doors by the Torment. He flies back and hits the wall with a wheeze, and grins as he slides down it. The monster follows him, and then he's a man again, and the Torment has his hands on Larrikin's throat. 

Larrikin can heal almost all injuries, but strangulation isn't an _injury_ , it's oxygen deprivation. He grabs the man's elbow and tries to force him away. In physical strength the man is superior, so Larrikin bites him and drops to the ground as the man's grip weakens. He's already rolling out of his range when the Torment processes this.

Larrikin throws several quick punches, and the Torment snarls. His returning punch feels a little like Larrikin's being hit by a flying horse, and he gasps. The Torment follows that with several more blows, and Larrikin drops. He stands back immediately, with his wounds healing over, but his eyes are wary. 

"Not so chatty now, are you?" The Torment grins, with a bloody lip.

"Jus' catching my breath," Larrikin says, and then he calls the Torment several _very_ modern insults.

"I never liked you," the Torment says, and he swings at Larrikin again. 

Larrikin ducks out of the way, and grasps the Torment's swinging fist to pull him forward and off balance. The Torment just looks at him and doesn't budge, and then throws another punch.

"That's not very nice," Larrikin says, dodging. "I've always considered you a lovely man."

"You have always said that, haven't you, love?"

Larrikin's eyes dart to the doors, and he scowls at the standing figure. Dexter has a hand on the bandage, but he's on his feet. Larrikin knows that expression well; Dexter is going to do something _honourable_ despite the potential harm to his own self. There's no time to chide him. Larrikin focuses on diving toward the Torment, and this time he tackles him to the ground. The Torment headbutts him. Dexter fires a brief ray of energy into the assassin's side, but this only serves to make him angrier. 

"Why won't you shut up?" He snarls, hand on Larrikin's throat, and can't this fight be over?

"Okay," Larrikin shrugs, and then he punches the man so hard his head bangs against the floor and his eyes unfocus. Larrikin takes in a rattling breath. "Dex, please say you have cuffs."

Dexter throws them to him. Larrikin clips it on the Torment's wrists before he bounds away from the man, ignoring the impulse to kick him while he's down. He spins to Dexter.

"I told you not to move or pull anything," he scowls. He strides over to put a hand on Dexter's cheek. The strains are only minor, and Larrikin focuses on healing it all.

"Why didn't you wake me, or call for help?" Dexter asks. He's much too pale, and swaying.

"Because you're injured," Larrikin snaps.

He takes out his phone to get Grouse to deal with their new prisoner. Dexter's arms are crossed when Larrikin finishes the call. The Torment is still barely conscious on the ground. Larrikin glances at him, and sighs.

"Let's go inside," he says, and he supports Dexter into the ward. He makes sure to push a bed in front of the doors this time, a physical obstacle to any other pesky assassins. Dexter lets Larrikin half-carry him to the bed, but he refuses to lie down.

"You can't keep doing this." Dexter says.

"Doing what?" Larrikin says.

"Taking unnecessary risks just to protect me. I'm just as able to defend myself as you."

"Look, usually that's right, but you're badly injured," Larrikin says.

"Sure, but you do this when I'm _fine_ too." Dexter scowls. "Unless you've forgotten Wales?"

Larrikin throws his hands in the air. "This _again_?" 

"Yes," Dexter says. "This again. Serpine almost killed you."

"But he didn't. Because I'm a healer. Because I literally can survive almost any wound or poison or injury. If I hadn't stepped in Serpine's path you would have died."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," Larrikin says. "If I barely survived than there was no way you could."

"I don't want you to die because of me!" Dexter snaps, and it's a testament to just how unwell he is. Usually he understands the flaws in that sort of thinking and so does not give voice to it.

"No," Larrikin responds calmly, putting a hand on Dexter's. "It would have been because of the person that had killed me. That's how it works. Not your fault, unless you were planning on stabbing me? Anyway, I'm not dead. I'm really rather alive."

Dexter's shoulders slump and he leans forward. Larrikin puts his arms around him, and rubs his back. Dexter is squeezing his waist a little too tight and shakily. 

"I can't do that again. Do you know how long I waited for you to recover? How long I didn't know if you'd make it?"

Larrikin winces. "Sorry."

Dexter finally looks at Larrikin _properly_. He sighs, and squeezes Larrikin's hand. Larrikin looks down to see that they both are shaking, and he curls his offending hand into a fist. It's been a while since Larrikin has fought anyone. 

"You alright?" Dexter asks tiredly.

"Yep," Larrikin says.

"Why was he trying to kill you?"

Larrikin shrugs. "We could ask him?"

Dexter raises an eyebrow at that, and Larrikin realises that he feels a little too shaky to go off and question anybody. 

"Did you do anything?"

"Not that I can think of." Larrikin admits. 

"Then you should see if you can get through to Corrival, and everyone."

"I'll call Ravel, tell him what's going on," Larrikin murmurs. He feels sick to say the next words. "Someone murdered Deuce."

"What?" Dexter looks like he's about to jump out of bed and punch someone.

"We don't know who. The Sanctuary is locked down. I'm sorry."

Dexter swears to himself for a moment. Larrikin sees the moment when his partner decides to put any grief aside, and focus on their current situation. Larrikin has never understood that ability, but then again, he has never envied it either. Larrikin is one for open discussion of emotions as soon as possible, else they grow like rot, unseen.

"Where are Skulduggery and Val?"

"They said they had to investigate something."

"What? No, no, Skulduggery can't work on his own, not even with Valkyrie." Dexter's eyes are wide. "Why did you let them go?"

"You were bleeding out in my arms," Larrikin says, and it ends in a pathetic sort of squeak. He rubs his eyes.

Dexter clenches his jaw. "How long until I can go back on the field?"

Larrikin breathes out, shuddering slightly. He pulls himself together. "As long as I can keep you here."

"Be _feasible_ , Larrikin."

"If you give it a couple of hours you should be okay, as long as you don't get into more fights."

Dexter smiles wryly. "It really hasn't been us picking the fights. This feels like an attempted coup, if they're going after high profile figures and have already ... killed Deuce."

"I know." Larrikin says. "But we need to make sure Saracen is alright too."

"Why? He's safe in Russia." Dexter's tone is only a little sarcastic.

"There's no guarantee they aren't specifically after the Dead Men. If we're putting this behaviour in a pattern - your attack, Deuce's murder, the Torment's piss weak attempt to kill me - then they've only been after our team."

"You think this is a revenge mission?"

"I think it's an option."

Dexter nods slowly. "Call Anton. Get him to check up on Saracen, if Ravel hasn't already."

Larrikin bristles at the order. "Why don't you?"

Dexter lifts his arms up. "Nothing strenuous. Doctor's orders."

Larrikin smiles despite himself, and gets up to make the call. He only fumbles twice unlocking his mobile, and when he gets through to his oldest friend, his voice is almost steady. Anton's voice is gruff, and calming, and understanding, and when he hangs up Larrikin is almost convinced that things will be alright. Almost.


	11. Revelations, And Anton Appears For No Genuine Reason Save For The Fact I Think He's Rad (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why aren't you still in prison?" Valkyrie breathes.
> 
> "Good behaviour," Skulduggery says wryly. "Apparently my jailors saw my assassination of Mevolent as a point in my favour."

Skulduggery is walking so swiftly that Valkyrie is struggling to keep apace. She's surprised Larrikin even let them leave, but he'd quickly checked she wasn't injured then shooed them away. Now they're heading toward the exit of the Hibernian, brushing past doctors and patients. 

"Where are you going? Shouldn't we wait with Dexter?"

"Dexter will be fine. You can stay if you like." Skulduggery says, distractedly.

"Argh, no, someone has to be responsible," Valkyrie says.

"And you think you're the one to do that?"

"I can't see anyone else clamouring for the position," Valkyrie shoots back. She follows Skulduggery out into the car-park and lets him hail a cab without complaint. The Bentley is on the other side of the city. 

They get in. The driver looks at Skulduggery's stony facade and makes no attempt to chat, just asking for their destination. Skulduggery and Valkyrie sit in the back and watch the streets go past. Valkyrie glances out and notices a large group of people outside a main government building.

"What's happening there?"

"Didn't you hear?" The driver seems chuffed to be able to tell her something. "They're those crazy magic believers. They've been protesting for the last two days - God knows why."

"You don't believe their stories?" Skulduggery asks.

"Nah," the driver laughs. "I've lived thirty-six years and never met any magicians. None of that airy-fairy bull - sorry lass - nonsense."

They pull up outside of a familiar library.

"You have a very concrete way of looking at the world," Skulduggery says. 

"Thank you, sir! I try."

"It wasn't a compliment. People stuck in their worldview are, in my experience, the dullest to be around."

With that parting remark Skulduggery steps out of the car. Valkyrie glares at him then smiles at the stunned cab driver.

"I'm so sorry about my friend, he just found out he's infertile," Valkyrie says, and pays. "Have a good day."

"You too, lass," the man says, peering at Skulduggery who is waiting on the curb. "Look after him. My wife needed a lot of support when she lost the baby."

"Oh, we're not together," Valkyrie says, immediately revolted.

"Of course not, lass," the man snorts. "The look on your face."

Valkyrie steps out, and the driver turns out into the traffic, laughing all the way.

"You two were made for each other," she says to Skulduggery. "If you hadn't insulted him I'm sure it would have been a spring wedding."

"It's a pity we will never know. Though you do know the relationship would be built on lies." Skulduggery says. "Why you keep trying to set me up, I have no idea. First Ghastly, then a cabbie?"

"I'm starting to despair for your love life," Valkyrie says. 

"It's a long dead thing," Skulduggery agrees. "Now, what did you want to ask me? I can see there's something you're barely holding in, and when we go up there and start my investigation I can't have you distracted."

"How did you kill those cleavers?"

"You're a smart girl," Skulduggery says, and Valkyrie wants to hit him for that condescending tone. "Surely you've pieced it together."

"I want to hit you for that condescending tone," she says. "And pieced _what_ together?" 

Skulduggery stills, and then he grabs her wrist and tugs her into the library's foyer. Valkyrie has been here before several times, and she doesn't bother to glance around. Skulduggery does, and when he is sure that nobody is nearby he releases her and steps back. When he speaks his voice is quieter, arrogance gone. Valkyrie stares.

"You weren't told what I did?" He says.

"What?"

"I know that you didn't know all the details, because of your incessant questions, but nobody told you _anything_?"

"You're starting to annoy me now."

Skulduggery turns away for the moment, and Valkyrie expects him to start pacing like the overly dramatic idiot he is. Instead, he pauses for a long moment, and speaks.

"I am - was - Lord Vile."

Valkyrie looks at Skulduggery's profile. She looks at the ornate entrance desk, and then she glances down at her hands. 

"What are you talking about?"

"I assume you do know who Vile was?" Skulduggery asks. He's very still. 

"Of course I do but ..."

"That was me. I was Vile. And then, when Mevolent was killed, I turned myself in. And then I was released a century later, and here we are."

"But," Valkyrie says, and she stumbles away from Skulduggery, who still does not move. "You can't be. This must be a joke. Stop being stupid, Skulduggery."

"I'm afraid I cannot," Skulduggery says. He tilts his head forward. "I regret it, of course. There's no forgiveness for what I did."

There's something in his voice too convincing to ignore. It's like a hammer blow, and everything feels wrong, unreal, and desperately sad.

"Why aren't you still in prison?" Valkyrie breathes.

"Good behaviour," Skulduggery says wryly. "Apparently my jailors saw my assassination of Mevolent as a point in my favour."

"So those cleavers ..."

"I still have some control over necromancy. Dexter was bleeding out. We needed to leave immediately. I did what I had to do."

Valkyrie feels faint. Skulduggery's voice is very matter-of-fact and that makes it worse. She supposes it happened a long time ago for him.

"Why did you do it?" _Become Vile,_ she means. 

"I was broken, and angry, and lost," Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie steps even further away. "You're a monster."

"Yes."

The two of them stand and look at each other for a long moment. _Very interesting,_ part of her murmurs, but that fades back behind the rush of shock and genuine anger.

"... Well, are you going to help my investigation?" Skulduggery asks.

"Go to hell," she snarls, and she spins and stumbles out of the building and onto the pavement, and then she starts walking. She doesn't know where she's going, she just leaves. She doesn't even notice walking into the demonstration, but then she just pushes past the people to get through, words whirring in her head. She gets an elbow in her stomach for her trouble. Why hadn't Dexter or Erskine mentioned this before? How was it that she was the last to know this crucial information? _You didn't want to acknowledge this was possible_ , says something in her, wryly. _If you paid attention to the Dead Men's comments, this wouldn't be a surprise at all_.

"Shut up," she mutters, and she keeps walking, hands in pockets. She almost wishes it would rain, just so she had some reason to feel so utterly miserable, but the sun keeps shining brightly, not a cloud to be seen.

It's unflattering how swiftly Anton answers Larrikin's call, but he pushes down his irritation at himself and listens to Larrikin's anxious voice. It seems that there have been many alarming developments world-wide in the weeks that he has spent in Western Australia. Deuce murdered. Saracen imprisoned. The others attacked. Anton agrees immediately to Larrikin's request, but when they end the call he just sits for a moment.

In hindsight it is more than fortunate that he hasn't been taking visitors. It takes only ten minutes to prepare for departure. He had come here for solitude but he supposes six uninterrupted months is more than he should have expected anyway. Even had he been unwilling to visit Saracen, he would have gone, simply because Larrikin asked. That had been why he had gone travelling without him, these last six months.

As the Hotel buzzes in the preparation to move, Anton considers his mission. Larrikin simply asked him to make sure Saracen was alright, but Anton very much does not approve of leaving a friend in gaol. Pleasant had been an entirely different case - by all rights, he should still be locked away. But in Anton's view, it sounds like Saracen had the right idea. The forced separation of mages and mortals has never been something that Anton approved of. It is probably not appropriate to break him out of gaol, however. It's something of a conflict, would it be more dishonourable to free him or leave him?

Anton goes to ensure Larrikin's cat isn't going to escape or die of hunger while he's away, and the animal rubs against his legs affectionately. Larrikin had named it Rooster for no discernable reason, and had foisted it on Anton when he had announced he wanted to travel alone for some time. Though the official reasoning was that Rooster wanted to see the world - according to Larrikin at least - Anton knows Larrikin had been concerned he'd be lonely. With this in mind, Anton makes sure the animal is happy and even rubs its stomach for a moment, before brushing his hands and closing the door as he leaves the room.

It's memories like this, of Larrikin giving him his cat, or Larrikin fussing or worrying or caring about him, or laughing to himself like a mad thing. It's memories like those that cling, and Anton doesn't know how he will ever shake the accompanying feeling away. Larrikin is with Dexter, and happily so. Anton would never want to complicate that, and so for his own sake he must only look on Larrikin as a friend. He must, and yet he cannot, not yet.

The Hotel fades out of the desert block in the little Australian town and squeezes itself into the cityscape of Moscow, and like that Anton is on the other side of the world. He takes his passport from the safe and locks everything up, before walking down the street. People move out of his way as he goes, and it doesn't take long to walk to the prison entrance. He had never come to visit Pleasant, but he had seen this place on a map and remembered it idly, to be used sometime like now. 

The prison's outside is not as Dexter described it, but that is what time does, it changes things until they are unrecognisable. Anton walks in and looks at the man at the register for a long moment. Anton knows the Russian language well, and slips into it easily. It's like diving into a pond, perhaps, or starting to reread a well loved book. The words feel different on his tongue to English or Irish, but no stranger. There's a beauty in spoken language that Anton has always appreciated.

"I'm here to see Saracen Rue."

"Who are you?"

"Anton Shudder," he says, and he presents his passport. "I'm a friend of his."

Anton's name is clearly familiar already, the man looks suddenly pale. Anton sees the moment when the other man glances at Anton's chest, reflexive, like so many before him. However, after that he examines the passport and directs Anton to the waiting room without stumbling over his words. Anton just watches him, until the man grows so uncomfortable he scurries out of the room. And then Shudder waits for them to bring Saracen.

When Saracen is brought in he doesn't look too worse for wear, though there's a bandage on his head. He walks without assistance, and Anton tries to see if any injuries have been done to him other than the head wound. The guard leaves, but they both know they'll be under surveillance until Anton leaves the prison and Saracen returns to his cell.

Saracen clears his throat uncomfortably. "Well, fancy seeing you here."

"I would have come sooner. Nobody told me what was happening," Anton says seriously. "How are you?"

Saracen's eyes drop to the table. "I can't complain, they give me three meals and take me for walks once a day."

"That's better than what Pleasant got," Anton says. "From what the others have said."

"Why are you here?"

"Larrikin was worried, he wanted to make sure you were okay. I was the only one not tied up."

"I'm ... really hoping that's metaphorical."

Anton nods, and they both pause.

"Why didn't you tell us you were planning this?"

"You'd all stop us," Saracen says, a little miserably. "And, well, I didn't want to see your disappointment face-to-face."

"No, I wouldn't. The only thing that disappoints me is that you didn't come to me for help."

Saracen's mouth drops open, and then he looks downwards at the table with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Wow, we're idiots."

"You are," Anton agrees. 

"What's happening in Ireland?" Saracen asks. 

Anton frowns. "Have they told you nothing?"

Saracen nods, then shakes his head. "I haven't talked to anyone properly since they chucked me in here. Except to hear about my charges, blah blah blah."

Anton nods slowly. "I can tell you what I know, but I haven't been in Ireland for six months."

Saracen grins. "Tell me what you know. I'm not in a position to complain."

"Alright."

Anton sits back to collect his thoughts, and explains, and gently as he can, what has happened since Saracen's imprisonment. Saracen listens silently, until Anton is finished, and then takes a long moment to process it all. Anton watches him do this, and waits for questions, which he tries to answer as well as he can. Anton is used to telling friends and family about their loved one's passing, but this hurts more than Anton wishes to show, saying that General Deuce died that morning.

"It wasn't us!" Saracen says, in response to Anton relaying some of the general theories of who is behind the attack.

"Of course not," Anton says. "I know you wouldn't do it. Do you know who would?"

Saracen shakes his head and then covers his face with his hands. Anton watches him silently.

"We'll get you out of here soon," he promises. "Even if it's just to transfer you to Ireland."

"Good luck getting Erskine to agree to that."

"I don't need luck."

Saracen reaches out and grabs Anton's hand. "Thanks for coming."

"Anytime," Anton says, with the smallest sliver of humour. "I hope you'd do the same for me."

"As if you'd be stupid enough to get caught."

"I'm not omnipotent, whatever Larrikin says."

Saracen laughs, and someone knocks on the door. The humour swiftly evacuates Saracen's face. 

"Time's up," Rue says.

Anton stands. "Goodbye, then."

Saracen remains sitting, but smiles weakly.

"Good to see you, Shudder."

Anton nods, and leaves.


	12. Things Go To Shit, Bruz

Hopeless is trying, but everybody's fears are layered with surprise and shock. Hopeless walks down corridors and past offices and listens, but they cannot hear anything concerning. Nobody is anxious about being caught, or watching out for Hopeless themself - whose powers are no longer a secret. Hopeless tries to discard their own anxieties to hear other people's, but it is hard to let them go completely. Something about Erskine's grief and Corrival's death has shaken Hopeless' previous certainty from its moorings. Erskine's immediate suspicions make it worse.

Hopeless knows that they must tell him, but how can they, with what Erskine already believes? It's a difficult situation, though entirely their own fault. 

Hopeless walks all the way down to the archives. Their shoes click the floor, which is hard stone. Everyone's fears are different. Hopeless has trained themself to use their power to know where other people are around them. Of course, cleavers do not register - they have been trained out of feelings. Mr Bliss is the only mage Hopeless has come across without any fears at all. So, Hopeless walks down through the shelves, almost entirely confident that the only other people on this level are clustered together in the furthest of rooms. There are five of them. They are even more afraid than the rest, and isn't that _interesting_?

Hopeless stops walking audibly. They do not creep, nor do they stride. They just slowly walk to the end of the corridor, to the doorway leading into the room full of people, and stay there for a while. These are all people that Hopeless has never really spoken to, but the group all knows each other. Three women, one non-binary person, a young man. Hopeless leans against the wall on the outside.

"We need to get out of here!"

"How? There are cleavers everywhere!"

"I still can't believe Anthony took a wrong turn. How long have you worked here, _Anthony_?"

"Shut up! I told you I've never been to the conference room before."

"So what's the grand plan? We just waiting to be caught, now."

"..."

"Seriously?"

"I didn't expect someone to _kill the Grand Mage_."

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, Hopeless almost says, and then they frown at themself. That is really ... not an appropriate response. It comes to them, suddenly, that while they've been overly concerned about Erskine's lack of sleep in the last week, they also haven't slept well for sometime. When your housemate is anxious and you are a fear-mage, it is difficult to get the preferable eight hours every night.

Hopeless is not armed, but they don't need to be. They straighten their spine and glance into the room. It's the sort of space that should look dusty, but it's scrupulously clean instead. There are cabinets on the walls, a single table in the centre. This is where the documents from 1690 to 1790 are kept, Hopeless believes. There are probably letters written by the Dead Men themselves in some of these drawers. All five have their backs to the door.

 _Idiots,_ Hopeless thinks sharply. They're - partially - responsible for smashing up the technology in the conference room, but none of them have that particular fear that comes from witnessing a murder. Deuce was stabbed in the back four times and left face-down. That sort of violence leaves a mental mark. Or, at least, that's the excuse Hopeless will give Erskine if he sees the CCTV footage and has questions. 

Hopeless considers showing them the escape tunnel that would get them out of the Sanctuary, but then they dismiss that idea. Hopeless likes to think that they're not _soft_ , or if they are that they are only with the Dead Men. It's one thing to turn a blind eye, another entirely to aid their escape. Hopeless has enough marks against their name to cover up. They walk away.

On the way up the stairs Hopeless' hip buzzes, and they jump. It's their phone, and they retrieve it quickly, leaning against the wall. They sigh when they read the caller ID.

"Hey, Val, are you alright?" They ask, answering the phone.

"Why didn't you say Skulduggery was Vile?" The line is scratchy, with the sound of cars and people in the distance. 

Hopeless blinks. "Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm in Dublin. Some cleavers tried to kill us. Don't avoid the question." Valkyrie snaps.

"Valkyrie we're in the middle of a crisis here," Hopeless says. "I'm sorry, but we need to prioritise other things. Are Dexter and Skulduggery with you?"

Valkyrie sounds suddenly cautious. "... You'd tell us if Erskine was planning something shady, right?"

"First of all," Hopeless pauses. "I probably wouldn't. Secondly, of course he isn't doing anything shady. Why would you ask that?"

"He sent us into a trap, told us not to tell anyone about it."

Hopeless scrunches their forehead. "Look, he's sleep-deprived, maybe it was an accident."

"... Anyway," Valkyrie says, with a sigh. "The warlock mayor said our Elders set the whole thing up."

"And she's a reliable source of information, is she now?" Hopeless blurts out.

"You sounded ... incredibly Irish just then."

"I was _born_ here. Anyway. Where are Dex and Skulduggery? Are they safe?"

"Maybe?"

"What do you mean, _maybe_?"

"Dexter's in hospital."

" _What?_ "

"He's with Larrikin. He just got stabbed. He'll be okay." Valkyrie sounds shaky, which undermines her words, but the young woman rarely gets into fights where the Dead Men get hurt, so it's not necessarily something to worry about.

"Alright," Hopeless exhales. "And Skulduggery. I'm assuming he told you about Vile himself?"

"Yeah. I left him outside China's library."

"Okay," Hopeless closes their eyes. "I need you to do what I say, alright? Go to someone safe, Larrikin and Dexter, or Kenspeckle or even _Skulduggery_. You can't come to the Sanctuary, we're closed off. Go somewhere where you'll be protected."

"I don't need to be protected," Valkyrie snarls. She sounds like she's on the verge of tears. Aren't we all, Hopeless thinks, wryly.

"Look, if even Dexter isn't safe than you definitely aren't." Hopeless says, with as much gentleness as they have in them. "I'm sorry about keeping Vile a secret from you. We will explain when we can, but it's a terrible thing to talk about and most of us avoid it as much as possible."

"But you're still _friends_ with him."

"Yes," Hopeless says. "But we have all had a century to come to terms with what he did."

"Is that _enough_?" 

"Not for some," Hopeless admits. "And don't worry, we haven't forgotten what he did. Not at all."

"You sure act like you have."

"Has he ever worked alone, in the two years you've been here?"

Valkyrie is silent on the phone.

"Look, I am sorry about how we handled this but I need to find out who killed Deuce, so please just promise me you'll go somewhere safe after I hang up."

"... Okay."

"Look after yourself, Val," Hopeless says quietly. "Contact us if you need anything."

"Goodbye Hopeless." She hangs up abruptly.

Hopeless curses at themself for a moment, then pockets their phone and hurries back up the stairs. When they reach the main level the atmosphere has changed. The tension has shifted. Hopeless reaches out with their power to try and cling to some audible fear that could explain the situation, and they brush peripherally against a familiar concern. It's Ghastly's. 

Hopeless hates doing this sort of thing, but they reach out and cling to Ghastly's concern, and listen to it, like a thief or a spy or something worse. The wash of knowledge that results from the invasion is useful, if disjointed. Erskine is confronting Mist and Ghastly thinks it's a bad idea. Why he thinks so, and why Erskine is angry at Mist, Hopeless cannot tell. They can, however, guess. 

Hopeless almost rushes after the two men, past the crowded offices and in full view of everyone present. They catch themself, instead, and consider the situation. 

If Mist killed Deuce - and that's a large 'if', raising more questions than answers - then she would be prepared for Erskine to challenge her about it. She's an intelligent and powerful woman. Perhaps she has even had time to set a trap. Hopeless hasn't been near her enough to feel her fears - for that matter, when Hopeless tries they feel their powers swerving away, ignoring Mist altogether, which is ... concerning. Hopeless begins marching, avoiding large gatherings of people, keeping out of sight of everyone including cleavers. 

But Mist is not the only person Hopeless can listen to, and with a shuddering sigh they feel for Erskine's presence as they walk. It's like diving into a too-deep pool made of panic and regret, and Hopeless almost retches. This is - somewhat - the reason why Hopeless had avoided him for so long. He always gets more anxious when he's tired, and he's tired because he's so anxious about current events that he has hardly slept in much too long. Hopeless forces themself to feel his fear until they can understand it. And then they let it go, and start to run.

The Sanctuary was built underground, with corridors that twist like the wool in one of Ghastly's crocheted scarfs. The corridors weave around each other, in a way that should probably not be architecturally sound. Hopeless knows this place very well. They were there when it was designed. They are, quite possibly, one of the main reasons why unisex toilets are available here alongside gendered ones, which is a legacy Hopeless does not complain about. So Hopeless knows which way to go to reach Mist's office, and where the cleavers will be stationed and where the blind spots are. They run and run but when they arrive they are, already, too late.

There's a crowd of people around the corridor outside Mist's office door. Erskine and Ghastly are at the centre of this mob. There is a stillness in the air that smells of incoming conflict. Hopeless takes a split moment to shift their face and body, so they look like a blond man in his thirties. This is another part of their magic, the ability to mimic the forms of people who have died. Hopeless hates this power more, even, than their ability to hear fear. 

Mist is speaking. "You came to kill me, Elder Ravel?"

"I came to _arrest_ you," he snarls. 

"For the murder you committed?" She asks. The workers around them _gasp_. Some of it is feigned, Hopeless knows. There are Children of the Spider in this audience. But enough of it is real for this situation to be dangerous.

"What?" Erskine says.

"Check his sleeves," Mist says calmly, and three cleavers grab Ravel before he can struggle.

Ghastly steps forward and gets slugged in the face with a cleaver's fist. He cannot reach Ravel. Ravel is fighting them off but he is tired. Hopeless bites the inside of their mouth to stop themself from shaking, or doing something to blow their cover. Then something clatters to the floor.

It is a knife.

It is a knife that Hopeless remembers Erskine carrying during the war, after he was imprisoned, always under his sleeve. Its presence is more of a testament to how deep the scars from his torture and imprisonment go, than any conclusive proof of his guilt. The onlookers, however, aren't privy to this information. Their gazes become judgmental, their stances wary. Some even cry out dismayed accusations. _Idiot_ , Hopeless thinks of Erskine, and feels guilty about it. 

"Why would I kill Deuce?" Erskine says, and his voice breaks. He is slack in the cleaver's restraining arms. 

"To help your friend Rue," Mist says quietly, sadly. "He said he wasn't the only one behind this ... movement. I had hoped it wasn't you. Oh, Erskine."

"You _bitch_ ," Erskine snarls, and he throws himself at her.

Mist allows him to reach her, to put his hands on her throat, but then the cleavers pull him away and it is mayhem. The bystanders either step away or try to restraint Erskine - and Ghastly, who is fighting to reach his side. Others are shouting. Hopeless glances around. None of them are looking at Ravel with sympathy. It is time to act, Hopeless decides, with fury burning strong enough to boil a kettle. Erskine and Ghastly are fighting them off. 

"We need to get out of here, Erskine," Ghastly calls.

Hopeless knows from Erskine's calculated fighting that the blind rage has passed. Hopefully, he will follow Ghastly's advice, because otherwise he will make this all so much harder.

Hopeless moves away from the fray. They can do more good without fighting physically. Their eyes meet Ghastly's for a split moment and he seems to recognise them, but Hopeless shakes their head, and he turns back to the fight.

Hopeless inhales. They harness those threads of fear around them, grasping on people's capacity to feel terror instead of simply listening to its natural presence. _Be scared_ , Hopeless thinks, fingers flexing, _be very scared_ and then they make it so. It is enough to make some pursuers falter. Ghastly and Erskine shake off the rest. They are trying not to harm anyone, and most of the employees seem to have the same aim, but Portia is going in for the kill. Hopeless grasps on her terror specifically, magnifies it enough for the woman to cry out and fall to her knees, and Erskine and Ghastly are gone around the corner now, running for their lives. 

Mist stands up and brushes down her dress. Portia runs to her, all concern, and attention slowly flits away from the departed Dead Men to the single remaining Elder. Mist's veil is firmly in place, but Hopeless can see her satisfaction.

 _I could kill her_ , Hopeless thinks quietly. _I could make her so scared it breaks her mind. I could take Erskine's knife and stab her through the heart and end this all_. 

But what would that achieve? Mist has enough people on side that even her own assassination mightn't be enough to invalidate her story. If anything, it would put _more_ suspicion on Ravel - so many people assume that Hopeless and Erskine are in a relationship, simply due to their housing arrangement, and any action that Hopeless takes now will reflect on him. They need to be calculated, cunning. Hopeless feels for Mist's fears again and finds nothing at all. They couldn't even use their magic against her, even if they planned to.

Hopeless turns. They need to free the prisoners - those that are protesters, at least - before Mist punishes them as an example of her _dedication_ to the "cause" of Secrecy, as a chance to solidify her image as a stalwart supporter of their former Grand Mage. That is what Hopeless would do, in that woman's shoes. After all, why would one kill a Grand Mage only to ruthlessly support his vision?

 _Thank the Faceless I didn't get Valkyrie to come here_ , Hopeless thinks, as they hurry past milling workers and cleavers. It's not much of a comfort, but it's the only one Hopeless has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all hate Anthony here. That is the 'take home' message of this chapter.


	13. I Feel Obligated To State That Anton Is Still Great, Despite The Fact That He Is Not Present In This Chapter At All

The last thing Valkyrie expects to hear right now is the sound of laughter. Following Hopeless' advice, she's back with Dexter and Larrikin in the Hibernian Theatre. Apparently the two were attacked after Skulduggery went off, which just makes her angrier at the skeleton. The laughter is approaching their room. It's breathless. Too loud. Dexter is half asleep, reclined on the bed with a sheet pulled to his chin. Larrikin is beside him on a chair. Valkyrie is sitting on the other side. There aren't many patients today, and Larrikin got off his shift early so he could stay with his partner. Valkyrie waits for the laughter to pass but instead the door swings open, and Ghastly and Ravel are in the doorway. The latter is only standing due to Ghastly's arm around his waist. Erskine is the one laughing, but now it's lessened to constant giggling instead. Dexter and Larrikin glance at each other, and then Larrikin is across the room checking both men aren't hurt.

"Mist framed Erskine," Ghastly says, dumping Ravel on the nearest chair. Without Ghastly's help, the man slumps in the chair, still laughing.

"Is he alright?" Dexter asks. "He seems a little too happy, considering."

Larrikin puts a flat palm on Erskine's forehead, which Ravel blearily bats away. Larrikin's healing powers only work through skin to skin contact, and he is able to diagnose any malady - apparently - from a single touch. Valkyrie thinks that's a much cooler discipline than being an elemental, but she has no ability for it.

"He's just sleep deprived," Larrikin says, patting Ravel on the shoulder. Either Larrikin applied too much force, or Erskine is really unbalanced, because that is enough for the man to tumble to the ground. Larrikin looks down at him, on the floor. "What _are_ you doing?"

"How was Ravel framed?" Valkyrie asks.

"She made it look like he killed Deuce, and that he wanted to kill her - I think. Then we ran out of the Sanctuary because there was a mob after us."

"Shit," Dexter says, watching Erskine, who is avidly watching the floor. Valkyrie agrees with his sentiment.

Suddenly Erskine snaps to attention. "Hopeless? We left Hopeless!"

"They're fine, they're still at the Sanctuary," Ghastly says.

This is enough to make Erskine stagger, swaying, to his feet. "But ... Mist ..."

"They're a fear-mage, they can handle it," Ghastly says. "They wanted to stay behind."

"You sure?"

"Yes," Ghastly says firmly. Ravel yawns, and leans into Larrikin's space until the man is holding him steady with an almost-embrace. 

"How long has he been like this?" Larrikin asks over Ravel's bowed head.

"Since the adrenaline wore off after the fight. It was difficult to get him in the car," Ghastly scowls. "Why do my friends always drag me into things like this?"

"Hey," Valkyrie says. "I haven't."

"Valkyrie, you are now my favourite," Ghastly says solemnly.

"Will Mist be after you two?" Dexter asks, pointedly.

"Possibly. Depends on what she's planning."

"We need to get out of here, then," Larrikin says. 

"Oooh, does that mean I'm discharged now, doctor?" Dexter asks.

"Yeah," Larrikin says. "Don't make me regret it."

"Where are we going?"

"Val, you don't need to come. We're going to lay low for a while." Dexter says. "Mist won't be after you."

Valkyrie scowls. "I'm coming."

"What about Skulduggery?" Ravel murmurs. "She'll be after him."

Valkyrie stiffens, reminded that she should be annoyed with all these _lying_ people. It's a difficult thing to keep in mind when half of them are rather vulnerable, and they are all in the middle of a crisis. She notices that Ghastly doesn't look at Ravel either, gaze stuck to the floor. Larrikin pats Erskine's head.

"Shush now love," he says. 

"No," Dexter says, warily. "He's right. Anyway, Skulduggery shouldn't be left unattended."

The Dead Men, even Ravel who is barely cognisant, look at Ghastly. The scarred man frowns.

"What?"

"Can he come with us?" Larrikin asks quietly. 

Ghastly doesn't meet anyone's eyes. "As long as he doesn't have the passenger seat."

Valkyrie considers backing out, but something in her squirms at the idea of looking like a coward. 

Dexter makes a face, which Valkyrie catches out of the corner of her eye. "Sorry, Ghastly."

"You were right," Ghastly says, ignoring Vex's comment completely. "We need to get out of here now. Where to, Larrikin?"

Larrikin grins. "I know a place."

Dexter calls Skulduggery, and then they all go outside and get into Ghastly's van, picking up Skulduggery on the way. He steps in already talking.

"So, I think Mist is the one who set the whole thing up and probably killed Deuce ... oh."

"Hello Skulduggery," Ghastly says, facing straight ahead. His hands are on the steering wheel.

"Hello," Skulduggery says, quietly, and then he buckles himself in.

They pull back onto the road and Skulduggery says nothing for the entire trip.

They drive out of Dublin and into the countryside, until they are surrounded by low fields and hills and sheep, instead of houses. They turn down a little lane and drive up to a single cottage. Valkyrie peers out at the fields and the little, homely house. Something is off. The windows are curtained, but they light up with different colours every five seconds. As they draw closer Valkyrie can make out the thrumming sound of music; it's contemporary, with bass and whirring, metal tones. Valkyrie recalls this music from the lame school dances her parents sent her to during secondary school. Larrikin starts bobbing his head, and Valkyrie isn't _certain_ that it's ironic. 

"Cass is having a rave!"

"Is this the right place?" Ghastly asks.

"'Course it is," Larrikin says, bounding out of the car. The rest follow. 

It takes Dexter banging on the door as loud as possible before it is answered. Cassandra Pharos has a teacup in her hand, and is wearing a baggy dress under a white knitted cardigan. Behind her the hallway is dark, lit only by the colourful flashing lights coming from the sitting room. The music is deafening. 

"I know I said you were welcome anytime, but I'd prefer if it wasn't now."

"We need somewhere to lie low for a bit," Ghastly says seriously.

Cassandra sighs. "Come in then, careful of your heads."

Erskine is half asleep on Ghastly's shoulder, so the rest filter in first. Valkyrie walks in, eyes to the ceiling, and sees that the hazard Cassandra warned of are multitudes of small straw dolls hanging from the ceiling. It's eerie, especially with the darkness and the flashing light.

"Sick beats," Larrikin says to Cassandra, and Valkyrie winces at the slang. He has to half-yell over the music.

"Thank you, Larrikin," Cassandra says, and walks past everyone to turn the lights on. It's disorientating to suddenly see everything clearly, and then the speakers are off too and the discoball stops turning. 

"Awww, I was looking forward to having a dance," Larrikin says. "Dexter, why won't you dance with me?"

"Larrikin, you told me to avoid excessive movement," Dexter says.

"I didn't know there was going to be a party!"

"Another time," Cassandra says. "Is Erskine alright?"

"Yeah, just sleepy."

"Does he want some coffee? Tea?"

Erskine murmurs something indistinctly. Ghastly looks down at him, and Valkyrie sees a fleeting expression of fondness before he looks stoic again.

"Probably not a good idea," Dexter says. "I think we should cut him off from all caffeine, god knows how much he has already had to soldier on this long."

"Hopeless will kill us if we don't get him to sleep soon," Skulduggery notes. He's a healthy distance from Ghastly and Ravel, hanging back more than usual. Valkyrie is caught between glaring at him and ignoring him. Even his voice makes her uncomfortable. 

Erskine says something to Ghastly, and the man mutters something back. They all walk into the sitting room and find seats. There's nobody else in the house. Ghastly dumps Erskine on a couch and he curls up on it. Valkyrie suspects the Elder hasn't even registered the new location. Larrikin pats Erskine's head as he passes, and the man curls up more, catlike. Dexter takes off his jacket and puts it over Erskine's shoulders.

"You will want to look at the Global Link," Cassandra says. "Something important is - or will be - happening on it. My vision wasn't specific as to what this would be."

The Global Link is rarely used. Only during national emergencies do Councils post broadcasts. Larrikin scrambles to turn Cassandra's television on, and he tunes into the right channel. Mist is at the podium, veiled as always. Behind her stand Portia and Tipstaff, of all people. She is wearing the Grand Mage's robes. She is in the middle of her speech, or perhaps just the start.

"... It is with deep regret that I inform you all of the murder of Grand Mage Corrival Deuce which occurred this morning. He was a great man and leader, and his death is an absolute tragedy. It is with even greater sadness that I have to inform you that the perpetrator was our own Elder Erskine Ravel." She lowers her head a moment. "He attempted to murder me when he realised I suspected him, and is now on the run. I ask all Irish citizens to inform the Sanctuary upon coming across him and to not engage. He is highly dangerous, and likely affiliated with the anti-secrecy movement."

Valkyrie glances at Cassandra, who continues to sip her tea, unconcerned. 

"Furthermore, considering our national situation, I am invoking the fifteenth article of our constitution," Mist says. "We need to suppress the anti-secrecy protesters swiftly, and with the necessary force. We are on a knife edge. Any weakness or mistakes will expose our way of life to the mortals, who are completely unprepared for mage and mortal integration. I do not do this unnecessarily. Should mortals discover our existence, they would respond with hostility and violence, as they have done historically. I have lived through the witch hunts. I have seen purges. I have seen what mortals will do when scared, and it would break my heart to see any sorcerers come to harm because I was too lax with the situation. As such, anyone who has been arrested for protesting will be housed in the Wexford Sanctuary Gaol until we have time to try them fairly. Anyone wishing to travel outside of the country (with the exception of the UK) will have to register with the Sanctuary before leaving. If these measures do not give us enough time to take control of the situation, we will have to take further steps."

Mist keeps talking, adding platitudes and condolences. Larrikin mutes it, and looks at the others. Dexter is scowling. Erskine is spaced out. Valkyrie knows she is in denial, she must be, because it doesn't feel real, this announcement, the implications.

"Well boys," Larrikin says. "We now have a dictator. Let's drink to that!"

Dexter drops his head onto Larrikin's shoulder, and the red-head's smile disappears for a moment before he reasserts it, patting his partner's shoulder. The tension in the air is physical - is this what it feels like to be Hopeless, Valkyrie wonders.

"Tea?" Cassandra suggests.

"With two sugars," Skulduggery says.

Valkyrie laughs, then hates herself. The skeleton's skull turns toward Valkyrie slightly, but they don't make any approximate of eye contact. 

"What are we supposed to do?" Valkyrie says quietly.

"We plan," Ghastly says. "We find out what Mist is planning, how strong her support base is, and we discredit her and prove Erskine's innocence."

"How?"

"Goddammit, I have no idea."

"We have a little time," Larrikin says seriously. "Before they find us here."

Cassandra sighs. "I'm going to switch to the hard stuff. And then you are all going to explain what is happening, and then we're going to move Erskine to my spare bedroom so he can actually sleep."

"Can I have some brandy?" Larrikin asks. 

"Straight brandy?" Dexter murmurs.

"No," Cassandra says. "You'll want to be sober for what comes next."

Larrikin's face is a mimicry of horror. "What do you mean?"

"You'll find out," Cassandra says, before walking into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any feedback is welcome!


	14. Anton Comes Into His Own, Saracen Doesn't

Saracen's powers aren't fettered by the binding sigils on the cell's walls. This is confusing. Rue decides not to ask his guards about it. No need to worry them. They've probably got lots of other things on their minds. Perhaps his power is just different enough from other, more physical, disciplines that they can't suppress it. He doesn't know. He isn't sure he cares all that much. It doesn't make much difference, except that it notifies him of the fact that his cell is the exact same one Skulduggery was kept in, amongst other, more useless, tidbits.

Saracen has never really understood his own power. He has always _just known things_ , had knowledge pop into his head that was correct but entirely unexpected. It's irritating, sometimes useful, and annoys Dexter - always a bonus. So, sitting on the pallet with his eyes on the door, Saracen has the sudden knowledge that Anton is walking down the hallway. Saracen blinks, and stands. Shudder had visited yesterday and Saracen had not been under the impression that he was coming back soon. 

The door swings open. Anton stands in the doorway, like a boulder but more intimidating. Saracen waves.

"Long time no see," he says.

"Are you coming?"

"You're breaking me out?" Saracen says, somewhat incredulously. He knows Shudder doesn't care much for the law but he hadn't expected _this_.

"No," Shudder says. "I'm just about to lock you back up and leave you here."

Saracen pouts. "That's not very nice."

Shudder grabs his arms and drags him out of the cell. Saracen stumbles, and glances around. The corridors are empty, barely lit, and really quite spooky. Shudder's grip on Saracen's arm loosens, and the man walks ahead. Saracen hurries after him.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks.

"I'll explain later." 

They walk through the levels and up to the visiting rooms, past several unconscious guards. The way through is clear. When they reach the exit, which consists of a magically reinforced door, Shudder just steers Saracen towards the gaping hole beside it. Saracen stalls, staring at the ruined stone and metal, and looks at Anton. He shouldn't be using his gist like this - every time he does it takes a toll, and Saracen isn't _worth_ it. But Saracen pushes that thought aside and clambers through, and they're out in the foyer. Unease settles deep in Saracen's gut. 

"Hurry up," Shudder says, shoving Saracen to make him run. "They'll have reinforcements soon."

Rue nods and runs alongside Anton, questions rolling in his mind. They emerge into the night, onto the street, and the relief that courses through Saracen is almost overwhelming. Shudder takes the lead, staying in the shadows beside the shopfronts, and the two men meander through the city. By the time they see the facade of the Midnight Hotel, Saracen's hands are shaking from adrenaline. He's used to that, though, so when he _knows_ that there are two armed guards behind them, Saracen follows instinct and drags Anton into a doorway, narrowly avoiding gunfire. Rue swears. He's not wearing armoured clothes - though Shudder is. Anton obviously considers those same points, because a moment later he is walking out of the doorway and toward the two men. Rue squeaks, but has the wherewithal not to follow him.

What follows is messy, enough that Saracen, jaded as he is, wishes to look away. He doesn't, and is relieved when Anton doesn't kill either of them. Shudder's newfound respect for human life, however, means that he isn't as efficient as usual, and the men are good fighters. Shudder fells the first well enough, only to get shot in the neck right before he knocks the second out. Saracen winces. Anton's hand goes to his bleeding neck, and the man sways. Saracen has no idea how he's not screaming. He's really happy they were confronted near the Hotel though, because Rue would have had even more trouble dealing with this situation.

Rue hurries over and catches Anton when he falls. He's bleeding profusely, which is not great, and then he's screaming, loud enough to hurt Saracen's ears. Saracen drags the heavy man over to the Hotel - thanking God or the Faceless or whatever that there were only two attackers - and when he's at the doorway he rummages through Shudder's pockets to grab the keys and Anton's phone. Only when they are inside does Saracen try to stem the blood flow by balling up Shudder's jacket and pressing it tight to his neck. Thankfully the bullet grazed it rather than going right through the middle. Saracen is not a doctor. But he knows how to steer the hotel. He gets Anton to sit in the nearest seat.

"Anton, look at me," Saracen says. "Keep your hand on your neck, alright, don't stop holding the 'bandage'."

Anton's eyes are dazed but he blinks in what Rue _really_ hopes is acknowledgement. Either way, Saracen leaves him there to hurry over to what Larrikin dubs the "steering wheel" - though the two things have no resemblance - and he uses one hand to call Larrikin while he plots their trip with the other. Navigating the Hotel gives Saracen a headache, so he tries to follow instinct rather than thinking on it overmuch. He keeps an eye on Anton, who's slowly sinking in his seat on the other side of the foyer.

Larrikin picks up. "Anton, my love, light of my life, what do you want?"

"It's me."

"What?" Larrikin says. "You're in prison, Saracen, what are you doing on Anton's phone, you crafty bastard?"

"Anton broke me out. We're in the Hotel. He's been shot. We need you."

Larrikin swears. "Alright, can you come to Cassandra Pharos' house?"

Saracen attempts to do the arithmetic, remember where Cassandra lives geographically, then transfer it to something plottable for the Hotel to travel by.

"Yes?"

"Okay, get here _now_ ," Larrikin says, and Saracen presses the necessary sigils and the Hotel groans and shakes and then they're in Ireland. Anton cries out with the movement, and Saracen races over to stop him falling _again_.

"Hey Anton. Look at me. Larrikin is coming, stay awake," Saracen says, pressing his hands to the really terrible bandage. He hopes he's correct. His powers are being horribly silent, and he hopes he didn't accidentally transfer them to Spain or something.

Anton focuses. "Larrikin?"

"Yeah."

Anton tries to get to his feet, much too pale, Saracen pushes him back down.

"No you don't, boyo."

"I can't see Larrikin," Anton says, and suddenly Saracen _knows_ why.

"You idiot," Saracen says, sympathetically.

"I agree," Larrikin says behind them.

Saracen jumps and then moves out of the way. Larrikin drops to his knees in front of Anton and tugs the bloodied jacket away, putting his hands directly on the open wound. Saracen's stomach attempts to hop out of his body like a really squeamish rabbit, and he looks away. Anton's blood is all over his hands.

Why didn't Shudder just leave him in his cell? It was quiet there. Minimal bullet wounds, which Saracen always appreciates. 

"Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine," Larrikin says, though he's less blasé than he would be usually. "This'll take a bit to knit together though. Why don't you go into the house? The others are in there."

"The others?" Saracen says, sceptical. He's wary of getting punched in the face. "The Dead Men."

"Uh huh, well not Hopeless."

It's typical. Saracen's one ally, and they're not even present. Well, Anton probably also counts as an ally but he's currently choking on his own blood so. 

Saracen walks out of the Hotel. Cassandra's place is as idyllic as he remembers, and the lights are on, and the rabbit in his stomach is kicking like nothing else as he approaches the back door. He's hesitating about knocking or running away when the door flings open. 

"Well come in then," Dexter says, voice neutral. He looks a little rundown, but not too bad.

Saracen clears his throat. "Hi."

Dexter examines him. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to hit you. I might yell at you later."

"Alright," Saracen says, and wheezes when Dexter pulls him into a tight hug.

"I was worried about you," Vex says into his ear. "What were you thinking?"

"Uh," Saracen says, hugging back. "I can explain, I will explain, but there's a lot to say."

"Alright," Vex says. "How's Anton?"

"In the Hotel. Larrikin says he'll be fine."

Vex eyes the Hotel for a moment, considering, but then he looks back at Saracen. "I'll show you where the others are. Be warned, they're not happy with you."

"I didn't think they would be," Saracen says, as if his shoulders aren't curling in on himself. 

"Shit," Dexter says, almost to himself. "If Erskine weren't already kicked out of the Sanctuary I'd be really worried about Russia's response to all this." He gestures at Saracen.

"Erskine's been kicked out?" Saracen blurts, and then the knowledge falls into his brain. _Oh_. "He was framed?"

"Yeah," Dexter says, looking at Saracen funnily. 

"Well, go along, take me to see them," Saracen says.

Dexter snorts. "Brave man."

"Uh huh."

They walk into the house, and into the kitchen where Cassandra is chopping plant matter on the breadboard. Saracen can't tell if she's making a late night snack or doing magical things, and doesn't mind either way. She's bobbing her head to music on the radio; it's heavy metal, unfamiliar, and really doesn't suit the scene whatsoever. The lyrics are questionable, but the actual sound of the music is quite nice.

"Good music," Saracen says. "What's the band?"

"MPM," Cassandra says. "Nice to see you Rue."

"You too. What does it stand for?"

Cassandra starts to speak, but Dexter yanks Saracen through the room. 

"Moving on," Dexter says, pointedly.

Down a corridor they go, and into a living room. Ghastly and Skulduggery look up as they enter. Ravel is curled up under a crocheted blanket on a flowery couch. Saracen avoids his gaze, he doesn't need his powers to know Erskine will be the most upset with him.

"Hullo," he says anyway.

"Saracen," Ghastly gets to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

"Anton got me out." Saracen raises his hands in a surrendering motion. "It wasn't my idea, I promise. I was just relaxing in my cell when he busted down the door. It was rather impressive."

"Was Anton working with your movement?" Skulduggery asks. The skeleton's tone is rather cold.

"No - well, I'm pretty sure he wasn't," Saracen says, because Anton breaking him out has made him unsure.

"You're pretty sure?" Pleasant asks.

"Look, it's a widespread movement, I don't know who else is involved apart from the people I specifically contacted," Saracen says. "It's supposed to be a grass-roots movement."

"Why did you do this?" 

Ravel's voice is hoarse, broken. The rabbit in Saracen's stomach really wants to get well out of here. Instead, Rue meets Ravel's bloodshot golden eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in the last month.

"I thought it was the right thing to do at the time," Saracen says quietly. 

"How? How could you possibly think that?" Erskine's eyes are bright, and he gets to his feet with some effort. "How is it worth it? To go behind our backs? To undermine everything Deuce and I fought for?"

Saracen nods. "I knew you'd say that."

"Answer the _fucking_ question," Ravel snarls. 

Saracen inhales, about to speak, and then Erskine trips on the edge of his blanket. Feeling something like a particularly inept knight in shining armour, Saracen steps forward to catch him before he smashes his face on a bookshelf. For a moment Erskine breathes unsteadily in his arms, and Rue loosens his grip. Then Erskine's face _changes_ and Ravel's forehead connects with the bridge of Rue's nose. Saracen shrieks and jumps away. Erskine walks out of the room. Saracen holds his bleeding nose.

"What in - what in the _Christ_?" Saracen garbles. "I didn't even get to answer his question."

"He's really tired," Ghastly shrugs, smiling. "You know how he gets when he's tired."

"What, he _headbutts_ people?" 

"Exhibit A," Dexter says, gesturing at Saracen's poor, injured nose. "I'm going to make sure he doesn't trip and impale himself on a doorhandle."

"Okay," Saracen says.

Dexter leaves. Saracen sits down on the vacated couch. Ghastly and Skulduggery watch him. 

"If this is how he reacts to me I'd hate to have seen how he treated Hopeless," Saracen mutters, to break the silence.

Skulduggery shifts in his seat. "What?"

Saracen eyes Ghastly's surprised face and Skulduggery's concerned posture. 

"Shit," he says, in the manner of someone who has inadvertently said something potentially catastrophic. It's too late for damage control. Ghastly puts his head in his hands. "Forget I said anything?"

"I'm getting Ravel," Skulduggery says, standing. 

Saracen lets him leave, making a strangled sound when the skeleton departs. 

"How on earth did you hide your plans for this long?" Ghastly asks, astounded. 

Saracen sinks into the couch like a despondent rock. "I'm asking myself the same question."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saracen's powers are not canonically compliant in this fic, because honestly I prefer it this way. Also, Saracen is a disaster, because I also prefer it that way.


	15. Wherein the Dead Men almost communicate properly, for the first time ever

"You're lying," Erskine says flatly. 

Saracen shrugs. "Ask them yourself."

"I _can't_. They haven't been picking up our calls," Erskine snaps. He paces from one end of the living room to the other. Anton is slumped on the floor, on a mat that he insisted they bring out. His bedroom is tiny, and Anton wanted to be involved in the planning, while Larrikin didn't want to leave his side. The healer is sitting cross legged next to Anton, who has his back to him. The rest of the Dead Men are perched on couchs or tables. 

Saracen sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. They said - before this whole thing started - that they were going to tell you. But it sounds like things escalated fast - maybe they didn't get the chance. I wouldn't have mentioned it all if I had known they hadn't told you."

"That doesn't make it better," Erskine says.

"I didn't think it did," Saracen says. His nose still aches from Erskine's attack. 

Larrikin coughs.

"What?" Erskine asks.

"Why has nobody mentioned that this _doesn't_ matter right now? You've got a limited amount of time before you're going to crash, Erskine. You need to combat Mist's actions before then."

Erskine exhales. The circles beneath his eyes are grey. Larrikin had been cajoled into giving him an energy boost - an aspect of his healing powers he doesn't often use - simply because without it Erskine would be unable to oppose Mist, which he needs to do urgently. It's a temporary fix which will leave Erskine worse off later on. The Dead Men are all sidetracked by the news that Hopeless is, apparently, part of the protest movement. 

"Of course it matters," Erskine says quietly.

"To you, to us? Sure," Larrikin says. "But right now, what you need to do is film a response to Mist denying her accusations. We can't leave it until you have enough sleep - the longer, the more suspicious it seems."

Erskine closes his eyes for a long moment. "Does anyone have makeup?"

Saracen frowns. "Why?"

"I can't go on the Global Link looking like this."

"I left some in the foyer," Larrikin says, unenthusiastically. He hops over Anton to hurry out of the room.

"Have you written out a script?" Skulduggery asks.

Erskine lifts his hands. His fingers are trembling, like an old man's. His grin is somewhat unhinged. 

"I'll just go off the cuff. We can post it prerecorded, so if I mess it up I can just try again."

"If you're sure," Skulduggery says.

"I might have fucked up every major decision since the crisis began, but I do know how to post video announcements," Erskine says.

Dexter snorts. "You've handled this better than I would have."

Erskine sighs, and just stands still with his eyes closed for the moment.

"Here you go," Larrikin announces, carrying a toiletry bag. "I've got concealer, eyeshadow, lipstick, blah blah blah."

"Thanks."

Larrikin eyes Ravel. "Do you want me to do it?"

Erskine nods, and Larrikin grins just a little. He grabs Erskine's hands and pulls him to sit on the ground.

Ghastly is sitting far away from the rest, looking out the window. His voice is quiet. "You know she'll work out where we are, right, from the video?"

"Since when does Mist know anything about technology?" Saracen asks.

"Since she got control of the entire Sanctuary and therefore all the IT mages."

"We'll deal with that when we have to," Erskine says quietly. "Larrikin's right, we need to do this now."

"There you go," Larrikin says, putting down the brush. "You look almost alive now."

"That is preferable," Erskine says.

"I thought so too," Larrikin says.

Erskine rises and walks over to a mirror set above the fireplace. He looks at his own reflection impassively.

"There's something I need to tell you all."

"No there isn't," Larrikin says. "No big reveals now please."

"It's important. Mist might use it to her advantage."

"What is it?" Skulduggery asks.

"When the videos first came out, Mist asked me to help her - prepare to defend Ireland against the mortals finding out about us. She wanted help to take advantage of the situation, behind Deuce's back. She didn't say exactly what the plan was before I refused her."

"Why on earth didn't you mention this?" Larrikin exclaims.

Erskine braces his hand on the mantlepiece above the fire. He bows his head. 

"Because - because I owe her. She saved my life."

The others make no response.

"I don't talk about this much, but, when Serpine captured me, during the war ... I knew after the first few months that you all weren't coming for me." Larrikin makes an anguished sound, which Erskine ignores. "And then, when I was hopeless and shattered and desperate, Mist and her people broke me out. They saved me. And then they nursed me back to health. It took months for me not to flinch at the sound of someone knocking on my door."

Valkyrie makes a soft, "oh" sound.

"And the children of the spider didn't have much, either. They lived in extreme poverty, terrified of mortals and mages both," Erskine's voice is detached, now. "And they were all so angry at _mortals_ , who had so much power over them, so much more freedom. And I was weak - I - she, I suppose you could say that she radicalised me, or tried to. Between 1850 and 1945, I believed that mages and mortals should coexist, so that mages could rule and 'improve' the world."

"What?" Saracen asks angrily.

"There's more to it," Erskine says wearily. "I'm summarising here. Anyway. Hopeless knew. They convinced me that Mist was lying - was manipulating me. This took a, a bloody long time, for them to show me the truth. And I ended up joining Corrival, and helping him instead, when I realised."

"Why are you telling us this now?" Anton rumbles.

"She's incredibly manipulative, and great at spinning things the way she wants it. Don't be surprised if she uses this against me, somehow," Erskine sighs. "Or if she makes it out to be something it's not."

"You're telling me Hopeless convinced you that mages and mortals _shouldn't_ coexist?" Saracen asks, very calmly.

"Yes," Erskine says. "They were the one to convince me to help Corrival. Why would they throw that away now, with your movement?"

Saracen frowns. "Maybe they prefer our methods."

Erskine's hand tremors are worsening. "Perhaps."

"Jesus Christ," Valkyrie exclaims. 

"What?" Dexter asks, glancing around.

"You all are terrible at communicating with each other," Valkyrie says accusingly. "It's incredibly annoying. Erskine, why didn't you tell them this _centuries_ ago?"

"A century and a half," Erskine corrects. 

"Whatever. You should have said. Saracen, you shouldn't have behind our backs - this would be so much less of a mess if we _all were on the same page_."

"I know," Saracen says, resigned.

"That's not good enough," she snaps. "You all need to stop holding back and _talk_ to each other."

"Val," Erskine says. "We will. As soon as we're all together and not facing a coup. Okay?"

Valkyrie rolls her eyes. "Sure."

Larrikin shifts to look at her. "Val, why aren't you back with your folks?"

"I want to see this sorted first," Valkyrie says quietly. "If Mist wins then my family will be in danger."

"Have you at least called them?" Dexter asks. 

"And have the call traced back here? Not likely."

"You may as well," Erskine says. "There's no guarantee they won't work out our location from the video. It would be good not to worry them - make sure they're safe."

"Is this an intervention?" Valkyrie asks, half-jokingly.

"You don't get to criticise our lack of communication when you're avoiding talking to your family," Dexter stands up. Valkyrie's face whitens, but Vex doesn't add anything else, just sighs.

"I'll set the equipment up, for the video," he says. "Coming, Skulduggery?"

The skeleton turns his head, surprised. Dexter tilts his head slightly toward Ghastly, who is still sitting by the window.

"Alright," Skulduggery says, following Dexter.

Erskine exhales as the two leave, and focuses until his hands stop shaking.

"Can you do this?" Saracen asks, seriously.

"Of course I can, Rue," Erskine responds. "You're not the only one who can make a 'world-changing' video."

"Haha," Saracen responds, unenthused. 

"Okay," Erskine says. "Okay. Let's go and do this, before I collapse."

"That's my boy," Larrikin says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was much more of a 'let's tie some things up and clarify things' chapter than anything else. Erskine has not apologised for headbutting Rue, and probably never will.


	16. Strike From The Shadows

The Sanctuary does not have a morgue, however Grand Mage Mist had insisted on keeping Deuce's body here. This office had been cleared, the air chilled by elementals, and now Grouse is looking down at the body of a man he has respected for a very long time. It is difficult to do his work. He has seen the new video on the Global Link - Mist's accusations. He even heard a panicked conversation passing by, two Sanctuary employees expressing concern over a necromancer's attack of cleavers, the suspicions of who may be the perpetrator. _If Skulduggery_ , Grouse thinks quietly, with budding anger, _if that skeleton dared ..._

"Hello Kenspeckle."

The older man jumps and spins. Hopeless is leaning against the doorway - not in a nonchalant, aesthetic fashion, as if they're just about to collapse. Grouse frowns.

"Hopeless."

"Yes?" They ask, and then they look around as if they don't know where they are. They're in an open doorway. Anyone could walk past. And Mist had put Hopeless' name right under Erskine's in the Wanted list.

"Get inside," Grouse grumbles, dragging the nonbinary idiot into the makeshift morgue and closing the door.

Hopeless stumbles inside. "I've been using my powers too much, I don't think I have much left in me ... oh. _Deuce._ "

Grouse watches Hopeless. They stand there for a very long time, looking down at their once-General and ex-Grand Mage. Grouse had tried to wash all the blood from Deuce's clothing, but it had not been successful. Why is he even here? He should be saving the living, not caring for the dead - he is not sure he can give Deuce the respect he deserves. He will try, though. That's all any of them can do.

"Have you turned off the cameras?" Hopeless asks quietly.

"What?" Grouse asks. "Hopeless, what's happening? What have you and Erskine done?"

Hopeless turns their back to Deuce and starts to search through the cupboards. They inspect the walls and floors and Kenspeckle turns back to washing his hands when he hears several clattering smashes. He turns to look at Hopeless, who's staring down at a small pile of black glass at their feet, holding a chair.

"Alright. Now that she can't hear us, Erskine hasn't done anything. He just opposed her presumable murder of Deuce and her coup of the Sanctuary," Hopeless exhales slowly. "I got the protesters out of the Sanctuary. There's not much time left. Can you tell me anything about how Deuce died?"

"Why did you let the protesters out?" Kenspeckle asks. "Why are you still here?"

Hopeless' freckled face tightens. "I had some affairs to put in order, before I see Erskine again. After I see Erskine I'll probably be in prison, so."

"What did you do?" Kenspeckle asks. He feels rather old, and disappointed. He'd always thought Hopeless was one of the more responsible ones of Corrival's rabble - an opinion only strengthened when he saw the mage yell at Skulduggery for putting twelve year old Valkyrie in danger. Had Pleasant not been pulled into line, Grouse dreads what would have happened to the girl.

"I helped organise a world-wide protest movement," Hopeless says, then laughs. A moment later they put a hand over their mouth, stricken, and look down at Corrival's corpse. Their next words sound dead, too. "I swear I didn't know this would happen. I would not have ... if I had known Deuce would die, I would have never ..."

Centuries ago, Kenspeckle had made a bomb. He knows how it feels, to be responsible for something awful, unexpected, that he should have anticipated. But Hopeless' movement had advocated peacefully, at least. 

"Why, child?"

Hopeless shakes their head. "It's been a long time since I was a child, Kenspeckle. I, I wanted to be free, I suppose. For us all to be."

"Are we not free now?"

Hopeless looks right into Kenspeckle's eyes. "We can never be free, not until we all live together openly."

"Hmmm," Kenspeckle says.

"You disbelieve me?"

"I believe in your conviction. I don't think it's right, necessarily."

Hopeless sighs. They genuinely look terrible.

"Do you remember when I was pretending to be a woman?"

"Yes," Kenspeckle says. "That's how we met, after all."

"For a long time, I felt that was safer - that or pretend to be a man. I felt that was the only way I could live my life, that how I felt was secondary. I knew, from about when I left my fanatical Faceless worshipping family, that I was not a _lady_ , nor a woman. It took me a very long time to make sense of this, and when I did I told myself I could not tell anyone - anyone but Erskine. Do you know how that felt?"

Kenspeckle has no idea, he is, and has always felt, comfortable as a man. He shrugs.

"No. How did it feel?"

"Like I was drowning," Hopeless sighs. "Eventually, I realised that _this_ is how I have to live, because just, just hiding it was not feasible. Same with my sexuality. Even before we had words for it, I couldn't stay in the closet. And you know what happened, when I was open? I could finally breathe."

"So?"

"I'm tired of hiding, of families being separated because one child has magic and the rest are mortal. I'm tired of walking down the streets and hearing all these peoples' fears and knowing mortals and mages are _fundamentally_ the same, but being unable to be open with them. I'm tired of seeing mortals die because they don't have access to magic which could make them better..." Hopeless inhales, and looks at Deuce again. They're swaying. "Sorry."

"You haven't told Ravel, have you?" Grouse tuts.

"No. That's what I'm telling him when I see him next."

Corrival doubts that news will be well received, but that is not his problem. "Why did you come to me?"

"Do you have anything, any evidence, that can identify Deuce's killer?"

"He was stabbed. You already know this. There's no poison in his bloodstream. Nothing to implicate Mist."

Hopeless frowns. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Corrival says. "And the CCTV footage was destroyed."

"I know," Hopeless says quietly. 

"What are you going to do now?" Kenspeckle asks, bustling around the place, disinfecting things just to do _something_. 

"I don't know. Kill Mist?"

"When you're low on magic, she has an army of cleavers, and you're on your own? I thought you were smart, Hopeless."

"That's a pretty common misapprehension," Hopeless murmurs.

"Hmmm. Why don't you leave before you get killed?" Kenspeckle suggests. "I'll call Peregrine to get you out of here."

"No. I need to talk to people. Convince them Erskine didn't kill Deuce."

"Not if you're telling everyone that you're a protester, you're not." Grouse says. "Remember, people see you and Erskine together all the time. They'd assume he's involved."

Hopeless grimaces. "So I can't help anything, now?"

"It sounds like you've complicated too many things already. Anyway, Hopeless, most of us from the war aren't going to turn on Erskine. You know this," Grouse says calmly. "Go to your partner. Explain what you did before it's too late."

"He's not my partner," Hopeless says distractedly. "We just live together. And honestly, it's already too late."

"Hopeless," Grouse says sternly. "You've known that man for your whole life. He deserved honesty, and even late, it's better than nothing. Get out of here before you're killed."

The mage hesitates. Grouse waits until they nod, jaggedly, and then he takes his mobile phone out to call Peregrine.

"Do you know where the Dead Men are?" He asks while he waits for the teleporter to pick up.

"No, I'll call and find out," Hopeless says quietly, and does so.

Hopeless should have known that Cassandra's place would be their hiding place. Cassandra is removed enough from their circle not to be an immediate suspect, but also one of the people they all can trust entirely. The late afternoon sky is grey, and Peregrine left without even a goodbye, possibly to avoid the rain. Hopeless inhales, and walks down the flowered slope toward Cassandra's cottage. There's a heat shimmer behind the old building - entirely unnatural, considering the weather. Hopeless wonders why Anton's Hotel is here.

For the moment, Hopeless' fears are entirely their own. There is nobody else quite near enough for this trepidation to be external, and anyway, there's a lot for Hopeless to feel bad about. They cannot imagine Erskine forgiving them, and they had known it would be difficult to heal before they started this all, but with Deuce dead, now ... how could Erskine even look at them ever again?

What a mess.

Down Hopeless walks. They bypass the cottage entirely, approaching the invisible spot where the Hotel must be. The shimmering wards let Hopeless in with a whisper, and then they can see the Hotel clearly. The familiarity of the place soothes a little of Hopeless' whirring thoughts, just as they start to pick up the anxieties of those currently within the building. 

Why is _Saracen_ here?

Hopeless walks up the front steps and into the foyer. There is the sound of conversation coming from the one of the rooms that offshoot from the living space, and Hopeless walks carefully in that direction. They walk into a side room. The original furniture has been pushed aside, and Erskine is standing facing a camera, speaking passionately. His eyes flicker to Hopeless for a moment before he refocuses on his task. Hopeless is amazed the man is still standing.

Dexter is behind the camera, and Larrikin and Skulduggery are with him. The latter two see Hopeless and hurry the fear-mage out of the room, closing the door quietly.

"Hello," Hopeless whispers, bewildered. "What's going on?"

"He's responding to Mist's video," Larrikin says, dragging Hopeless by their coat collar to the actual living room. "Don't disturb him. It's his fourth attempt."

"Fourth, why, what?" Hopeless freezes. "She'll find us if you post that."

"So? He's still an Elder, he can't just run away," Larrikin says, putting the kettle on. The healer hasn't looked Hopeless in the eye once. A sharp fragment of his fears catch Hopeless.

"Is Anton okay?" They ask, in response to that terror. 

"He got shot, he'll be fine," Larrikin says, jaw clenching a moment. "Here, tea. You look almost as bad as Ravel."

"Thanks," Hopeless says, bewildered. 

"Hopeless," Skulduggery says darkly. "Why didn't you tell us ...?"

"All done," Erskine declares, walking into the room. Hopeless almost spills their tea when they turn to face him. He walks past Hopeless and to the sink. He turns the tap on and scrubs his face with water. When he turns the makeup is gone, and he looks more concerning that the skeleton. "Larrikin, your boost is wearing off."

"I know."

"I need to be awake."

"If I do that again, you'll go mad," Larrikin says firmly.

"Aren't I already?" Erskine asks, and laughs.

"Okay," Hopeless says warily, and when the man sways they are there to catch him, and drag him to the nearest chair. "Have you posted the video?"

"Dex did," Erskine yawns, moving away from Hopeless' hands. 

"How long until they find us?"

"Depends on if they have teleporters or not," Skulduggery says.

Erskine is slumped uncomfortably on the chair. Hopeless goes to adjust the cushion behind his back, an automatic reaction.

"Don't _touch_ me," he snarls. 

Hopeless recoils, and moves swiftly away. They don't understand. 

"Skulduggery," Erskine says, as if nothing had just happened. "We need to move the Hotel. Can you do that?"

"I can," Larrikin says. "I helped Anton build this thing, after all. Where to?"

"I don't mind where, as long as it's in Ireland still," Erskine says. "We need to leave as soon as possible."

"It's too late," Dexter says from the door. "She's here."

"What?" Larrikin exclaims. "How? She can't have had time to watch the whole film."

"I have no idea," Dexter says, resigned. "Look out the window."

Larrikin bounds across the room and peers out the glass panes. "I can't see anything."

Dexter sighs and joins his partner, directing the man's gaze to the left.

"Well then," Larrikin says, a little humour trickling back into his tone. "Holy shit. A lot of people want you, Ravel."

"That's not news," Erskine jokes blearily. Hopeless can't wrench their eyes away from his folded shoulders, the fatigue leaking off him.

"Want you dead, I mean," Larrikin specifies.

"Well," Erskine says. "That's unfortunate."

Hopeless walks over to the window. The people outside are mostly cleavers, but there are some Hollow Men too. The earth swoops and sways under them. They try to remain steady. "We can still leave."

Larrikin makes a peculiar sound. "See that glowing thing there?"

Hopeless tries but they can't pick it out. 

"That's sapping the Hotel's powers. The wards feel different. I'll try, but we probably won't be able to teleport."

"How do you know?"

"Anton and I have dealt with that technology before," Larrikin says. "Hopefully I'm wrong, but if I'm not ... we're going to fight."

"I'll get my armour," Dexter says.

"No you don't," Larrikin snaps. "You're still not entirely healed."

"I'm in a better state than Ravel," Dexter says gently.

They all look at Erskine. Larrikin's powers have all worn off. He's staring at a shadow in the doorway with attentive interest. Hopeless knows that look.

"Boyo," Larrikin says. "Are you hallucinating?"

"'Course not," Erskine says, not looking away from that specific spot on the floor.

"Someone needs to look after him," Skulduggery says. "Hopeless, how much magic do you have?"

"Not enough," Hopeless admits. 

"Stay with him, then," Dexter says.

"What?" Erskine says. "No. You're not leaving me here."

"We'll try to deescalate the situation," Dexter reassures him. 

Erskine snorts, and then starts giggling.

"Alright," Hopeless acquiesces. "As long as you try and get us out of here first."

Larrikin salutes, more mocking than usual, and the three leave. Erskine stumbles to his feet.

"Let's go to Anton," he says, voice tight, head turned away from Hopeless. 

"Okay," Hopeless says, confused. "Erskine are you alright?"

"No I am not," he snaps. And then he laughs once, bitterly. "Come on then."


	17. Everything Is A Hundred Percent Fine And The Dead Men Are Totally Okay Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't think this necessarily needs to flagged, but in case this might be an issue for you for whatever reason, there are offhand references to misgendering etc in this chapter.

Never has Larrikin been so dismayed at being right. The Hotel barely even _tries_ to move, and Larrikin just keeps trying until Dexter pulls him away from the steering wheel.

"This is not good, not good, oh shit," Larrikin babbles. He'd kept his cool in front of Hopeless and Erskine - the two idiots didn't need to see him panicking, though Hopeless would hear it - but his partner is the only one here, now. Through sickness and health, and all that. Why hasn't Larrikin married Vex yet? He's been putting it off for so long, imagining that they had all the time in the world, that there wouldn't be any more crises. How stupid. What if this was the last time they ... 

"Hey," Dexter says quietly. "Look at me."

Larrikin looks into Dexter's gentle eyes. Vex has his hands on Larrikin's shoulders, and Larrikin just wants to curl up in his arms and hide.

"Our defenses are great, okay," Dexter says. "Anton has worked on them for over a century. Not even Mist will be able to get through - at least for a while. We just need to either destroy the technology that is locking the Hotel in place, or defeat them. We've faced numbers like this before."

"Yes, and last time we did you almost died," Larrikin says. It comes out accusatory, even though he just feels overwhelmed.

Dexter sighs. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who Serpine almost killed."

"True," Larrikin says. 

"Are you okay to do this?"

Larrikin closes his eyes for a moment, and nods. Dexter releases him, only to grab his hand and tug him along. They're heading to the foyer. Ghastly, Skulduggery, Saracen and Valkyrie are already waiting, all in armour, some armed.

"Nope," Dexter says. "Valkyrie, what are you doing here?"

"I'm helping you all fight, or negotiate," Valkyrie says defiantly.

Dexter shakes his head. "You're nineteen."

"Exactly. I'm an _adult_."

"In mortal terms, sure," Dexter responds. "But you haven't even had your surge yet. You should stay inside."

Someone bangs on the door.

"Normally I'd agree," Saracen says. "But we're down three people already. And Val's a good fighter."

Dexter stares. "It's not her fight."

"She's a Sanctuary Detective," Skulduggery says. "Her job is to defend our Sanctuary's ideals - including our democracy."

"Am I the only one against this?"

"I am too, honey," Larrikin says. "But unless you're going to tie her up I don't think you have a choice."

"Ha!" Valkyrie says, and sticks out her tongue.

Dexter exhales and rolls his eyes. "Stay behind us all. If we have to fight, stick with Ghastly or Skulduggery, alright?"

The banging on the door intensifies.

"Who's there?" Ghastly calls. They all walk toward the large, glass doors.

"Garda," a voice calls - it's vaguely familiar. "Open up, under the order of the Irish Sanctuary."

"For what reason?" Larrikin calls.

"Harbouring a fugitive," the voice calls.

"Which one - I mean, who?" Larrikin asks. The others glare at him, and he tries not to laugh. He's starting to buzz, as he always does before combat.

Dexter sighs and walks over to the door. He opens in. There's a shimmering layer of air that blocks the entire doorway - if someone tries to enter, they'd be in for a painful shock. On the doorstep is a collection of cleavers, Portia, and Thurid Guild.

Larrikin screws up his nose. "What are _you_ doing here?" He asks Guild, with disgust. He has never liked the man, for multitudinous reasons. He's rude, and unpleasant. He also _always_ misgenders Hopeless, and after a while it makes Larrikin want to punch the man in the face for disrespecting his friend. Guild also detests Skulduggery, but Larrikin can't really fault him for that. Sometimes Larrikin hates Skulduggery too. 

"Hello Larrikin," Guild says, with a false pleasantness. "I'm just doing my job, don't worry. This isn't a social call. I'm afraid your boyfriend has been replaced," He lifts up a Detective's badge. 

"Charming," Dexter says. "You know that isn't valid, right?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't be. It's been issued by the Grand Mage herself, after all."

"Deuce hasn't even been buried yet, you traitorous ..." Valkyrie starts.

"Oh, Valkyrie," Guild says. "You're too young to understand. This is nothing personal. Just my job. Now, if you give over Erskine, Hopeless ... and who's that in the back? Saracen? Why, you Dead Men have been busy. I'll take him too. If you give them over, Mist won't even charge you all for harbouring them in the first place."

"And what, exactly, would you do with us?" Saracen asks.

"Only what you deserve."

"That's rather vague," Dexter says. "And if we refuse?"

"Then we'll have to take them by force," Thurid sighs. "I'd hate to destroy such an iconic building, but orders are orders."

"You know our answer already, Thyroid," Larrikin says.

"It's _Thurid_ ," Guild snaps.

"That always gets you," Larrikin cackles.

"If you refuse to give them up, we've been ordered to view you all as enemies of the state." Portia says, smiling.

"If you think you can take on the Dead Men, go for it," Dexter says, crossing his arms. 

Portia and Guild eye each other. Portia is eager, Guild more hesitant.

"It'll be a pity to see you all go the same way as Deuce," Portia smiles.

The fury in Larrikin's chest is sudden and overwhelming. Dexter grabs his sleeve before he launches at her.

"Don't," Dexter says tightly, and Portia laughs.

"Did you hear that, Guild?" Skulduggery asks lazily. "That's the closest you're going to get to a confession from your coworker."

Guild look conflicted for a moment, but then he falls back into the role of an employee.

"It was a comment made in bad taste," he acknowledges. "That is all."

"Bullshit," Larrikin sneers.

"What's the plan?" Ghastly says, in the patient voice he has just before he punches someone. "You can't get through our wards."

"I can't," Guild agrees. "But we have someone who can."

Portia steps out of the way and China Sorrows walks up the steps. She's in a tight red dress, and there is a scalpel in her hands. She sways and stands beside Guild, a fair distance away from him.

"Hello darlings," she says.

Skulduggery stills. " _China_."

Larrikin glances at the skeleton, and recalls that he had visited Sorrows before they'd retreated to Cassandra's.

"I know, we made an agreement," she says. "But really, dear, you need to stop _trusting_ me."

"So I see," Skulduggery says. "Guild, did you know that the sparrow flies south for the winter?"

Thurid frowns. "I know you're unhinged, Skulduggery, but I don't see how ..."

Skulduggery steps easily through the shimmering doorway and punches Guild square in the face. Larrikin cheers. Ghastly swears, and follows him, and then they are all spilling out onto the steps and the cleavers are coming up to meet them. Larrikin is grinning. In the corner of his vision he sees Dexter push Valkyrie behind him, and then a cleaver's scythe is coming for Larrikin's lovely neck and he slides out of the way. China has moved to the side, watching the mob impassively. 

Larrikin focuses on where he is, right in this moment. He punches the cleaver, and when they come for him again he wrenches the scythe out of their hands. He really should have borrowed Hopeless' machete or something, but honestly, he wasn't planning to fight today. He swings at the cleaver, moving away from sweeping weapons, and when the back of the blade smashes into the soldier's helmet he falls like the lemon that Larrikin dropped into the Liffey in 1882.

"Ghastly," Valkyrie yells. "Get China."

The woman is carving something onto the concrete steps. Larrikin doesn't give her more of a glance, rather he launches himself at an approaching Hollow Man with a screech. The horrific joy of fighting makes everything blur together, and Larrikin doesn't know how many people he takes down before someone yells at him. He really wants to punch Guild in his smug, homophobic face.

There are more cleavers approaching the steps, and cars are pulling up in Cassandra's drive. There's the popping sound of gunfire.

"Get inside!" Dexter yells. "Larrikin! Skulduggery!"

Larrikin somersaults out of the way of another Hollow Man, and then Saracen is dragging him by his collar to safety. Larrikin splutters, dropping the scythe with a clatter.

"I can walk myself up the steps, thank you Rue."

In the foyer, Dexter has a knife to China's throat. She looks resigned, standing there with her hands by her side. Down the steps Ghastly and Skulduggery and fighting side by side.

"Get back in here!" Saracen yells.

Ghastly turns and sees them, with China, and just like that he ducks under a cleaver's blade and hurries up the steps. Skulduggery, caught unawares, almost gets decapitated before he spins and finds himself now fighting alone.

"Pleasant!" Larrikin yells. 

The Hollow Men are all converging on the skeleton. Ghastly is halfway up the steps. He glances back, for a moment, then continues up into the Hotel. There's something horrible and bitter on his face.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Larrikin mutters, and then he grabs a knife off Saracen and throws it at the main Hollow Man on Skulduggery. The thing turns, already deflating, and Skulduggery pushes it off him. Larrikin watches, mesmerised, as Skulduggery dismantles the rest of the Hollow Men and cleavers with a scary abandon. Guild, recovered from his shock, swings at Skulduggery, and the skeleton just grabs him just his shirt and _throws_ him. 

"Oh no," Saracen says. 

_If Skulduggery becomes_ Vile _I will kill him myself_ , Larrikin thinks, but the skeleton just looks up at them, and flies up over the steps and into the Hotel. Portia snarls and then her neck cracks, as she morphs into a spider. 

"Show off," Dexter says to Skulduggery.

Larrikin slams the door in Portia's face, and then tries to catch his breath in the sudden silence. 

Dexter shakes China. "How many people does Portia have under her orders?"

"Too many to count," China says wryly. "This was only the ... negotiating party. Would you mind moving that knife from my throat, Dexter love?"

Larrikin bristles at her familiar tone, but Dexter just smiles.

"I don't think so, China. I suspect there'd be a lot in it for you if you turned us in."

"It wouldn't be worth seeing the dismay on all your faces. Hullo, Val."

"Hi China," Valkyrie says. 

Something smashes into the door, and this time the whole structure shakes. There's a sudden, cracking sound, and the sound of approaching vehicles. 

"What are we going to do?" Saracen says. 

"We're going to blockade everything and call for aid," Ghastly says firmly. "International aid if we have to. There are too many for us to fight - not when our numbers are down."

The glass in the door suddenly shatters.

"What did you do?" Larrikin asks, whirling on China.

"A sigil or two, I admit," China says. 

Skulduggery curses, and spiders start crawling through the broken windows.

"Ew," Larrikin jumps, skin crawling. "Let's get out of here."

In unison they all move out of the foyer and behind the desk. Larrikin finds the defensive sigils - the ones for internal protection, not external - and activates as many as he can. Red lines light up around each doorway, and the foyer itself is a crisscrossed mess of wards. The spiders shriek and dissolve when they cross these lines.

"Interesting," China says. "Anton's been experimenting, I see..."

"Shut up," Dexter snaps, and he directs her into the room behind the desk, walking easily over the wards. The rest follow, Larrikin at the end, and he shuts and manually locks every door they walk through. They walk up the steps and enter Anton's room. The Gist user is asleep, and Erskine is slumped, semi-conscious in the corner. Hopeless stands, face pale.

"We might have a problem," Dexter says.

"I can see that," Hopeless says, looking at China.

"Not her," Larrikin says. "Dexter was referring to the people besieging us."

"Lovely to see you, Iseult," China says. "Elder Ravel."

Hopeless flinches, and looks away. "I cannot deal with her right now. Does she have to be here?"

"Do you want to leave her unwatched?" Dexter asks sceptically.

"That sounds preferable," China says.

"I'll take her," Saracen says quickly, and China allows him to steer her out of the room. Larrikin feels uneasy; the only reason China would be so relaxed is if she _wanted_ to be here. What is she planning?

"Ghastly," Dexter says, when they're gone. "You mentioned getting international aid?"

"Of course," the scarred man says, and he picks up his phone and walks to the window. He doesn't look at Skulduggery, which isn't unusual, but Larrikin knows how Ghastly looks when he feels guilty. He'd left Skulduggery to fight for himself. The Dead Men didn't do that.

"Do you think anyone's going to help us?" Valkyrie asks.

"No," Skulduggery says. "All the other countries are too concerned with their own issues, currently."

"We'll see," Dexter says curtly. "Australia might come through. There weren't many protesters over there, and we're longtime allies. The murder and attempted murder of our leaders is no small thing."

"It depends on if they choose Mist's side or ours," Larrikin says. He examines his companions; amongst them is a war criminal, two key members of the protest movement, a gist-user who just broke into a high security Russian prison, and Larrikin himself, who is notoriously annoying. Who are they kidding? Nobody is coming to their aid. 

Downstairs Larrikin hears the front door crash to the ground, and the wards start trilling. Anton jerks awake, and Larrikin's hands itch for a weapon, any weapon.

"They can't get through the wards," Dexter says calmly. 

"Not true," Larrikin says. "The wards will slow them down, sure, but not for long enough. I don't think Mist is going to hold back."

"Where is she, then?" Hopeless spits.

Erskine's voice is dazed, almost a whisper.

"She'll be coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this world most of the Dead Men (excluding Skulduggery) *recognise* that Valkyrie is a CHILD. Which means Valkyrie is not sent out into dangerous missions if they can help it, AND she actually had a family/magic balance when she was doing her apprenticeship.


	18. Larrikin Attempts To Intervene With Little Results To Show For It And Anton Is Present Because He's Great (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh no you don't, love," Larrikin says, and then the smaller mage is holding his shoulders. "Don't move. We're handling this."

Anton awakes with the realisation that someone is attacking the Hotel. The Dead Men - with the exception of Saracen - are in his bedroom, speaking frantically. The Hotel is on high alert - the defenses have been activated. He blinks, and does not wince when his neck begins to burn. Rather, he sits up and swings his legs over the side of his bed. Daisy is mounted on the wall, in the guns cabinet, and if Anton can carry that he can hold the intruders off. 

"Oh no you don't, love," Larrikin says, and then the smaller mage is holding his shoulders. "Don't move. We're handling this."

"The wards ..."

"Portia and cleavers are trying to arrest Erskine," Dexter says concisely. "China did something to weaken your exterior wards, but the interior ones are still activated. We're trying to work out what to do. We could fight them off - but we're outnumbered, and three down."

Anton's neck burns, and he doesn't recall why for a confused moment, then his hand flies to it. Of course, he had been shot, breaking Saracen out - why had he done that? Everything feels blurry and out of place. Ah. He had done it because Mist had taken over the Sanctuary, and Anton had thought it prudent to let Saracen out. Without anyone sympathetic to Saracen in power, Rue would potentially be left at the mercy of foreign powers. 

"Three down?" Anton asks, pushing against Larrikin's hands in an attempt to stand.

"You, Erskine and Hopeless," Dexter says.

"Hey," Hopeless protests from a corner of the room.

"Hopeless, you can't walk in a straight line."

"I can't do anything straight," Hopeless says, matter-of-factly.

"Was that a pun?" Larrikin stares.

"Erskine?" Anton asks over Larrikin's squawks. 

"Too tired," Dexter says. "If we put him on the field I don't know if he'll differentiate us from the enemy."

Anton remembers bitterly one mission when Erskine had not had enough sleep. It had been after his year long imprisonment. He had almost stabbed Hopeless in a blur of fatigue, until the fear-mage had pinned him to the ground and sat on him.

Keeping Erskine away from the fight is a very good idea currently.

"We need to make a decision," Skulduggery says quietly. "Fight, stay and call for backup, or try to escape."

"How can we escape? We're surrounded, and I can't even tell how many fighters are out there because _most of them don't feel fear_ ," Hopeless says.

"Anton?" Skulduggery asks.

"Ooooh," Larrikin says. "Are we using the secret tunnels?"

Valkyrie raises her head. She looks weary too, Anton notes. None of them are fresh and ready to fight, and that may be enough to get them killed.

"Secret tunnels?"

"For the last time, they are not secret tunnels," Anton says, exasperated. "They're just hidden doors."

"Why didn't you tell us about this?" Ghastly asks. How many people are in here? Anton scans them all, and finds only Saracen missing. If that idiot has wandered off after all of Anton's efforts to retrieve him, Anton doesn't know what he'll do ...

"It never came up," Larrikin says. "They were only made after the war, after Pleasant was imprisoned, so ..." he trails off, then claps his hands together. 

Anton knows that look. Larrikin's about to do something that he knows is important but also knows is really stupid and possibly dangerous. 

"We need to talk about what happened on the stairs," he says.

"What happened?" Erskine asks. 

"Ghastly left Skulduggery to fight alone," Larrikin says seriously.

"Larrikin don't..." Skulduggery says quietly.

"Now, the way I see this is, Skulduggery fucked up," Larrikin says, bulldozing over Skulduggery's sentence.

"He killed my mother," Ghastly snaps.

"Yeah," Larrikin says. "Sorry. My wording was questionable. So, Skulduggery killed your mother a century and a half ago. And you've got a couple of choices, either you cut him off entirely and make us choose who to be friends with, or you continue with this uncomfortable distance which is making you both really unhappy, or you just accept he did that and decide to live with it."

Anton's eyes fix on Ghastly's face. The scarred man is blushing, just a little, but his eyes are hard. Anton is unsurprised that Ghastly didn't guard Skulduggery's back, after everything. Indeed, he is more surprised at Larrikin making this an issue. From the other Dead Men's expressions, Anton's view is shared. 

"Not now," Skulduggery says, looking at Larrikin. "Leave him alone."

"I'm not accusing him of anything, you nutjob. God knows I've wanted you to be stabbed by a cleaver from time to time," Larrikin says. "We just need to talk about this all properly."

"Now, Larrikin?" Dexter asks quietly.

"We've been postponing this for too long. Skul and Ghastly are going to have to work together if we get out of this alive, and at the moment they aren't doing this."

"I can't just _accept_ it." Ghastly says. 

Anton wants to offer the man an embrace, but Larrikin would likely screech if the gist-user strained his neck, and anyway, that would ruin his image.

"I know. He killed people I cared for as well," Larrikin's eyes are bright with tears, he blinks them away. "And if you hadn't told us to, I would never have spoken to him again. But like you said, we can't do that. So you need to tell us where to go from here. If we're all working together now, you can't be ready just to let one of us get attacked again. The only reason we survived the war is that we had each other."

Ghastly puts his head in his hands. Larrikin bites his lip, and glances at Vex. 

"Ghastly told you all to speak to me?" Skulduggery asks quietly. He sounds stunned.

"Don't you dare," Larrikin snaps.

"Our communication skills are amazing," Erskine notes dully.

"Dexter?" Skulduggery asks.

The man looks at the skeleton. "Yes?"

"What did Ghastly tell you all to do?"

"He said that, if you were being released, you'd need support," Dexter says finally. 

"Why?" Skulduggery asks. It's the loneliest sound in the world.

"Because Ghastly Bespoke is a better man than you will ever be," Shudder says.

Pleasant turns his skull to look at Ghastly, and doesn't move for a very long time.

"Don't talk for me," the scarred man says finally. "I can speak for myself."

Anton inclines his head, and winces. 

"Why...?" Skulduggery asks, and his voice is soft. 

Ghastly looks at the skeleton for a long moment.

"You're my _brother_ ," he says. "You were my _best friend_. You needed ... you needed someone, after you got out of that hellhole. You needed someone, but I couldn't ..."

"Hey," Erskine murmurs tiredly, and he puts a hand on Ghastly's shoulder. The man curls into Erskine's embrace, and the rest turn away discreetly, ignoring the sound of sobbing.

Larrikin looks gutted.

"What do we do now?" Dexter asks.

"We try and get Erskine, Saracen and Hopeless - Anton too - out of here, and fight Portia off until we're sure the three are safe," Skulduggery says, rattled. "Unless you have any other ideas?"

"Alright," Larrikin says quietly. "Alright."

Anton has no intention of being smuggled away from the fight, but he resolves not to tell the others that. 

"Val, you're going too," Hopeless says calmly.

"What?" The girl asks.

"You shouldn't be here," Hopeless says. "You're a _child_."

"I can fight better than you can right now," Valkyrie says, affronted.

"It's not about your fighting ability. It's about what's right," Hopeless says. "This is not your fight."

"What's right?" Valkyrie snaps. "Like organising an anarchist movement behind our backs?"

Hopeless is more awake, all of a sudden. They look at Erskine, whose eyes are on the ceiling.

"Ah," Hopeless says.

"Ah," Erskine responds.

"I wanted to tell you, I was going to. I ..."

"Really?" Erskine snaps. His voice is softer than it usually would be, however, conscious of the elemental in his arms. "When exactly were you going to do that?"

"This evening," Hopeless says earnestly. "But then Corrival was killed and ..."

"I don't want excuses right now," Erskine says.

"Fair enough," Hopeless says, eyes on their hands. "For the record, we're not an anarchist group."

Larrikin laughs. "Because that's the most important point right now."

Hopeless shrugs and stands. "Are we going to go, or wait for Portia to poison us all?"

Anton watches his friend as they walk out of the room, and when they leave there a void remains. How will the Dead Men stay together, after all that has happened, when Mist is defeated? How can they surmount these multiple differences, these opposing ideologies, these betrayals?

That is not the concern at the moment. After they win this battle Anton will worry about it, he resolves. Now, he just needs to protect his Hotel, as he has done for over a century. It should be easy enough.


	19. Unexpected Solutions

Ghastly is shaken, but he's one of the strongest fighters currently, what with so many of their number exhausted or injured. Apart from that embarrassing show of emotion, Ghastly feels steady enough. He can do this. He can ensure his friends - and Skulduggery - survive this encounter. He isn't the best planner of the group, but he wracks his brain, trying to think of any edge they could have over Mist. 

Down the stairway they go, all of the Dead Men, footsteps deafened by the sound of the approaching enemy. They are outmanned and cornered. But as long as Erskine remains alive and free, they have a chance to topple Mist before she becomes to powerful. _Erskine_. Suddenly, Ghastly stalls on the steps, and Hopeless almost bowls them over. 

"Were you properly demoted, Erskine?" He asks.

"What?" Erskine responds distractedly. 

The others still and look at Ghastly. The banging outside increases.

"Remember in the Sanctuary," he says, "when that Cleaver attacked me? He obeyed your orders." 

"So?"

Skulduggery tilts his head in sudden realisation. Ghastly turns his face away when he realises they're looking at each other.

"That's embarrassing." Pleasant says quietly. 

Erskine is swaying a little, and Ghastly notes the moment when he forces his eyes to focus. He is skeptical. "You're saying I can order them to step down?"

"If they're still Sanctuary employees and still recognise you as their superior, yes." 

"That means Erskine has to get close to them," Hopeless says, sharply. "Close enough for them to hear his orders and recognise him."

"Well, yeah." Erskine says, not looking at them.

"You can't do that..." They have more to say, eyes concerned, but Erskine cuts them off.

"You don't get to tell me how to act," he says, not even angrily, and he walks past Hopeless without a glance in their direction. 

Hopeless hurries after him and grabs his arm, voice tight. "What are you doing? What's your plan?" 

"I'm going out and telling the cleavers to stand down." Erskine says.

"What about the Hollow Men and Mist? What if it doesn't work? Erskine, you're so tired, you can't even walk properly, this is not a good idea ..."

"You can handle that, surely," Erskine says, to them collectively. And then, just to Hopeless. "You seem very good at handling things alone."

Ghastly feels a little sympathy for Hopeless, unwanted, at Erskine's sharpness. But mostly he just feels irritation at Hopeless' overreaction. Hopeless' face is still pale and anxious and they don't register the slight. 

"Erskine, I'm not losing you too," they say.

Erskine's face is tight and unimpressed and he turns away. 

"Hopeless, don't be ridiculous," China says, voice like honey. "Can't you see you've already lost him?"

Hopeless snarls at her, hurrying after Erskine. "Why are you still _here_?"

Anton makes a small sound when they see the ground level. The floor is split and the foyer is filled with Sanctuary employees - mostly Cleavers. They're disabling the wards with a practiced precision and Ghastly feels a wave of confusion wash over him - how? How have they gotten into the Hotel, even with China's assistance? 

"Cleavers," Erskine intones, voice deep and commanding and for a moment Ghastly realises how attractive his friend is, before he refocuses on the enemy. "As your Elder I command you all to stand down, disarm yourselves and leave the Hotel."

Everyone stops. The Cleavers do not move a muscle. Hopeless walks to stand by Ghastly. The Dead Men have fallen into formation thoughtlessly, with Saracen at the back with China secured.

Guild walks in from the entrance. There's a foul smile on his face as he eyes the still Cleavers, the Dead Men at the bottom of the stairs. Had he heard Erskine's words? 

"Get him," Guild says, no speeches this time, predatory.

The Cleavers still do not move. It is the Hollow Men that move forward, thoughtlessly. Ghastly feels a shiver of anticipation - if the Cleavers had disabled enough wards they will be swarmed in a matter of moments, and then it will be a test of how well the Dead Men can fight while so impaired, how long they can hold out ...

But then the first Hollow Man crosses the threshold and there is a flash of light - red like a siren - and then there's an acrid smell of burning gas and a wailing tear as the creature is fried. Valkyrie makes a choking noise from the gas. 

Thing with Hollow Men is, they aren't capable of conscious thought. They're as good as machines, made artificially - muscle and nothing else. So the rest follow Guild's orders, nonplussed, and then the room is full of the smell of burning tyres ...

"Stop!" Guild yells at them, a little too late. The ragged remnants of the Hollow Men's troupe stop where they are. "Why didn't you disable the wards?" He snarls at the closest Cleaver. They turn their head to look at him, chillingly still. 

"Arrest Guild," Erskine says.

Guild's eyes widen, and he looks at Ravel for a moment before laughing quickly. 

"You surely don't expect ..."

"As your Elder, I command you all to dispose of the Hollow Men and arrest Guild for treason against the Sanctuary," Erskine says firmly. 

The first Cleaver turns. 

"Don't ..." Guild says warily, clicking his fingers to create a fireball. 

"Honey," Erskine says, viciously. "I was never technically sworn out. I have as much authority as Mist."

Guild frowns. "That can't be right - you ran away ..."

The Cleavers work with their usual, swift precision. They cut through the Hollow Men like just so much inanimate paper. Guild has no chance against the three who force his hands behind their backs. It happens in under five minutes, this switch of power, and then the Cleavers sweep out of the Hotel and toward the rest. Suddenly, all tension is gone. Ghastly can breath.

"Hurry," Erskine says, and stumbles. Dexter catches his elbow.

"We need to get this under control before Mist can give them contradictory orders." Skulduggery says.

"Where is Mist?" Larrikin asks. 

Hopeless' eyes unfocus, and Ghastly steps toward them, concerned. 

"She's with Cassandra," they say, quickly, confusedly.

"Hurry," Erskine says, with more urgency, and so they do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I aware of how much of a mess this story has become? Yes. Am I bulldozing through it anyway? Also yes.
> 
> I'm sorry for the gap in updates! I kept umm-ing and ah-ing about this solution, but decided just to go for it anyway.


	20. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This feels off. Surely if something feels so wrong, it shouldn't be permitted to go ahead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the lack of updates, but this is the penultimate chapter now I believe. I hope your 2021s are going well.

The Dead Men insist on Valkyrie waiting outside Cassandra's cottage, away from Mist and any remaining enemies. She stands, arms crossed, glaring, feeling dazed. Things had turned around so fast, it feels almost too convenient.

Valkyrie is an adult. She can be mature if she wants to, and she does understand why centuries old sorcerers might be over protective of someone her age. But. After all their collective lies and secrets, their exclusion of her now feels like salt has been heaped onto the wound in unbearable amounts. She glares up at the Hotel. She glares at Guild. She eyes the milling cleavers, and does not trust them. They've been in the cottage for a while now.

There seems to be too many catastrophes to deal with. If Mist is defeated, there's still Hopeless' movement to deal with, Skulduggery's past to process, her family to reassure. Will she want to be a detective, after this? What will Erskine do, when he's back in power?

Why don't people talk to each other, properly?

From within the cottage comes the sound of crackling flames, a yell, a squelch, and Valkyrie makes to enter the house when Erskine stumbles out, with Ghastly. They're both a little singed. Dexter follows close behind, with an unconscious Mist slung over his back. Valkyrie waits for the cleavers to react to the obvious attack of their Elder, but they just watch.

Hopeless walks out, with the rest, with Cassandra. 

"What happened?" Valkyrie asks.

Erskine's eyes are weary, and he ignores the question.

"Cleavers, please take Saracen Rue and Hopeless into custody, under the charge of treason," he says, and sounds too calm.

Hopeless' head lifts up. Anton shifts to stand in front of Saracen.

"Erskine," Larrikin says, very seriously. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I can be accused of many things, but I hope that corruption isn't one of them," Erskine says, as the cleavers direct themselves toward the two Dead Men.

"Not again," Saracen says, partly joking, but unresisting. There's something horribly blank about his expression.

"Erskine," says Hopeless, voice breaking just a little. "Please, please can we just talk ... please."

Erskine shakes his head once and walks away, toward the Hotel. Valkyrie watches, wide eyed, as Saracen and Hopeless are led away.

"How can you let him do this?" she asks.

"It's within his right," Dexter says, and Larrikin looks at his retreating back with a momentary wounded expression. Dexter carries Mist over toward the cleaver's vehicles and commandeers one, cuffing the woman.

"Come on Valkyrie," Ghastly says gruffly. "Let's go back to the Hotel."

Valkyrie looks at all the broken people around her, and it feels like something within her disappears, something intrinsic to her happiness, or her trust in the world. This feels off. Surely if something feels so wrong, it shouldn't be permitted to go ahead?

But she is young, and she knows this. She wasn't alive during the time the Truce was made and magically secrecy created. She didn't live through the war, nor fight with these people. The depth of Valkyrie's lack of knowledge becomes suddenly visible to her, and she almost wants to cry.

"Come on," Ghastly says gently, and she does.


End file.
